Silence of a Poet

"When the Grim Reaper asked for my spirit, I told him to take my poetic pen. He walked away smiling, leaving me illiterate." In the mystical wilderness of virtual poetry, surrounded by metaphors that mystify my mind, I've become a shadow of the poet I once knew. Insecure with egotistical lame labels, tormented by attention seeking tags, irritated from imitative compliments. Exhausted eyes sting, bloodshot from reading an overuse of mumbo jumbo jargon. On the edge of personification, symbolic syllables burn all desire to scrutinize. Sometimes there can be too many words, sometimes not enough, yet we veil the true meaning of our thoughts. I guess there is an art to pretending, yet I watch my artistry fade. We weave webs turning the internal into external, but I question whether I was ever a poet. Pondering if my poems served a purpose. I have lost patience for personal prose, rhymes without rhythm sound so revolting, the soul is sick of old fashioned sonnets. as iambic pentameter has always been my enemy. I hear alphabetic patrol sirens, their ignorant judgment is a mockery to the bilingual. An assassination of alliterations, is causing a massacre of my muse. There is a void in my verses, which prevents me from roaming free. My soul feels like a starless supernova, a moonless sky drifting into a black hole, as fatigued fingers become a mistress to simple scribbles. I yearn to be forever silent, with no motive to write for a legacy, so I've imprisoned my muse in an asylum. I have lost passion to spill the ink from my quill, so I no longer tend to the petals in my poetic garden. I've found peace in the solitude of a blank canvas. Silent One 15 February 2022