A Poet Without Inspiration
The wait seemed eternal to feel inspiration.
Minutes were mountains as each one ticked by,
my hand poised grasping a pen, and then
seated without hitting one stroke on a key.
A closed mind submits nothing, zero and zilch
in a life that's been deeply anchored
in the annals of an abyss shrouded by opacity.
Somewhere between midnight's noirs
and the misty grey flow of morning fog,
I'd fallen into a cavern, deprived of light.
I'd built a bulwark fortress that fenced me in
and the key to my cell... held in my own hand.
I brandished a pen that became a sharpened sword
that hacked and sliced at my every written word.
My dreams were gone, along with life's sensation.
No wonder I could not find a cause for inspiration.
A poet who doesn't write is of no use, none at all.
I stood at the edge of a cliff ~ should I jump or fall?
Sounds of laughter caught the attention of my ears
and through eyes blurred by tears,
I saw children running along the water's edge.
Hesitant, I decided to watch them from upon the ledge.
I sat atop the cliff with legs overhanging that day,
wishing I was a child of ten again to join in their play.
"Well, poet," spoke my muse. "Are you a withered bloom?"
A scolding for thinking of naught but notions of doom
A flurry of fussing she threw at me, hassling like a Harpy.
Exactly what I needed for living in doldrums of gloom.
"Now, see what you've done," she was decidedly terse!
"Your burden is that you always begin in free verse
but always end up writing lines ending in rhyme.
You continually do that. Time after time."
My laughter was louder than the children at play
who stopped traipsing in the surf to look up my way.
A wave of my hand and down to the beach I ran.
Inspiration filling me like waves crashing upon the sand.
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