my muse is gone. i still lament her flight.
it seems like years since we had last conversed.
my pen is full, my paper blank and white;
my rhyme is fit to meter well-rehearsed.
this is a puzzle, more than poetry;
syllables to iambs must be matched.
the meaning doesn't matter, frequently;
to structure it's only loosely attached.
will this ever become writing again?
words in creative flow, not pieces split?
i miss what my words in the past have been,
when i had pictures whole, not puzzle bits.
is my muse gone forever? i hope no . . .
sadly, she's hidden somewhere i can't go.
10/14/2008
i think this pretty much speaks for itself.
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