I’ll never write another word
–ever– I think, maybe a bit longer.
The Muse has left me, alone and mute
singing quietly inside…but it isn’t writing
not bringing forth words of rhyme
or golden thoughts or phrases that soar
with the uplifting quality that speaks of fulfillment
of the annunciation of the soul
(if that is even the right word.)
What does that mean? My Muse does not respond.
Silence echoes across the lines, across the fields,
rich and full, and absence of sensation…or character.
There is no solution, no evolution…no rhythmic flow
of syllables, or stanzas, flights of fancy…
clever ways to express a notion
…or just to form a simple phrase–
no silver tinged sunsets,
no tales from the depths of despair…
no soaring ecstasy of the bliss of a kiss.
Words which once were at the edges of my
repertoire –within easy reach of the empty voice–
now unknown to the barren and lonely page.
Then suddenly–as swiftly and silently as its sad departure–
My Muse is back!
Filled as ever with words and phrases–as rapture
poignant, sad and delirious–silly and serious,
wisdom and whimsy, sense and nonsense–
and my writer’s fickle heart welcomes
the return of the Muse
to fuel the rebirth of my soul.