Racking anguish vandalize my soul,
as my pen crawls across the empty page,
leaving the mirror image of my vitality.
A futile exercise turns into self pity.
A useless effort in self agitation.
Months of inactivity has left my muse
abused, misused, defused.
It seems I can write no more.
Is that correct? Is it the writing or the muse?
Writing is discipline, a few words each day.
Do I countervail my imagination?
For subjects must be born within the soul,
that soul I forgot about months ago.
Should I dream of valleys green,
or ice capped mountain unassailable?
Is my muse so hermetically sealed.
Perhaps I'll find it again....or perhaps not.
A Silent One Contest
Copyright © Victor Buhagiar | Year Posted 2020
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