the end of the line for a muse

in a sky full of echoes I'll drown in the loudness of last lines losing my sure footedness in clouds that look like mountains where tears are nothing but a cycle to be lost and found there was a time before I wrote perhaps I'll arrive at the time after within all my /used to be's/ I'll list: 'poet' for I don't compare sunsets to molten glass nor the wind to ancestral whispers flowers bloom and die against my blank page for all the World I'm sure I have nothing to say biding time whilst I work on an epitaph I look ahead beyond my lack of scrawl to a more attentive mark II thoughts left uncaptured that pass through empty spaces I'll fill with something else...