I've lost my muse...

[witsentat]

I remember finding her,
In a stand of trees
Amidst a forest of my hopes.
She stood there
On a carpet
Woven from the hair of angelsm

To me,
She was Spring,
Incarnate.
And I would wait for her,
While winter blew his final breath
Across my bruised and beaten earth.

And she
Would reward my patience with words.
And a promise to cover my trees with leaves,
And fill my valleys with flowers as wild as her hair.

I watched as the ice began to melt,
And formed pools of color.
Into which I'd dip my brush
And turn canvas into art.
I counted the turns of this slowly spinning earth,
And filled myself with hope
And fear.

Soon she would no me.
Just me,
Not the poet,
Not the painter.
Just the aging man.
With dried up
Broken hands

Yet maybe,
If she held these hands,
She would add some youth filled moments
To my years.
She might sprinkle laughter
On my tears.

And then
Spring came,
And she
Was gone..

I feel dry now.
As dry as the paint
On my abandoned brush.

I am no painter.
No poet.
I am just me.
An aging man,
Who still feels cold,
And counts the days 'til summer.

I have lost my muse....


I don't think I'm finished with this just yet