Sometimes the muse speaks, other times you have to do a lot of internal bitching to get things moving… today was a lot of internal bitching… but I’m not completely unhappy with what came out… Enjoy.
All is not Lost
The pen rests idle, ink runs dry,
beneath the weight of this winter sky.
No bottle to cradle, no fire to spark,
Just silence wrapped in a stubborn dark.
The words that poured like vintage wine,
now stumble, falter, and misalign.
Each stanza a puzzle, each rhyme a cage,
An empty stage without the rage.
Yet deep within, a whisper grows,
A quiet seed the muse sows.
Even in drought, the roots still yearn—
A barren field awaits its turn.
Your poetry, very much vibing with the fog and cold.
I feel it…