Fault Is Not In the Poet

Fingers tremble, like an alcoholic without a bottle. His pen is graceful in its slumber, but imprisoned ink desires to be free - intoxicated by his poetry. Lips are forever silent, in the absence of inspiration. Isolated in the boredom of blankness - congested to think enough, struggling to feel enough. Fault is not in the poet, but in his absent mind - which is a metaphorical candle. Each drip creating pools of dusty wax, as ebony wick struggles to keep flame alight. Monsters of the mind keep musings locked away, so he turns to poets from the past - but even Rumi cannot rekindle his desires. Eyes gaze among petals for stimulation, but their dormant fragrance offers no solution - he is blinded by loss of concentration. He wonder if his mind has become a flower, out of season, but refusing to die. He reflects upon love and lovers, past, present and future, but it does not liberate his ink - maybe romance is out of fashion. As his tongue tastes autumn's crispy air, gloomy horizons summon birds south - their songs of joy soften into muteness. He feel for their empty nests, now visible through naked trees. Yet no outpouring of poetic observations, overcome him - have birds taken his muse? Maybe the fault is in the birds, maybe the fault is in the question...