My Muse

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