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Gone, Arid, Bolted
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On Poetry What do you do
when inspiration walks away
even though
you know you've got more to say?
What do you do
when the writing well runs dry
but still
fountains of tears are left to cry?
What do you do
when your muse puts up a block
and all the doors
have been shut closed and locked?
What do you do?
You wish for her return,
you hope the tears are enough
to fill her again,
and you pray you can bring her
down to revealing where she
kept the key.
Oh cool, I lost my muse also, what's next? I have a poem about this somewhere. Lydia