My muse.

There was a time, not long ago, when words would flow gently, uninterrupted, from my thoughts to my hands, when rain or shine neither interrupted nor distracted my earnest attempts to string them into sentences...what happened to those words now? Why do they hide in the dark at the smallest pretext - a passing cloud in the sky, a passing phase in my life...?

Nary a phrase nor a word,
Not a sound echoes in all the silence.
Where lies my muse?
Where hides the thrill that perfect words bring?
Who imprisons the epithets that colored my lines?
What of the delightful train of lyrical phrases and melodious clauses,
that chimed along, in tune with me?
Oh, how you dwell in darkness!
Perhaps the whimsical winds, the capricious clouds,
the showers that alight without a call are to blame?
Perhaps, you shy away from the colors of nature?
Did they not embellish your presence once,
why then do you shy away now?
What use is your silhouette when I seek to limn a portrait?
If I seek thee on a bright and sunny morning,
my muse, would you care to return to me?

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