There is no poem in me today,<br></br>the music of my spirit sleeps<br></br>and golden things have fallen dull<br></br>while my internal jester weeps.<br></br><br></br>The joys I had have all gone deaf,<br></br>my muted sense of beauty dried<br></br>and shriveled under harsher light,<br></br>by introspection it has died.<br></br><br></br>Today I am a shallow husk,<br></br>a drab container for my mind,<br></br>I look with sallow, bleary eyes<br></br>at tarnished words that once have shined.<br></br><br></br>There is no song to hear today,<br></br>there is no pleasure to be had,<br></br>but I draw breath, I yet survive,<br></br>and for my life, I am yet glad.<br></br><br></br>The sadnesses of life all come<br></br>and go again, in their due time;<br></br>afflatus winds will blow again<br></br>and life, like verse, resolve in rhyme.<br></br><br></br>I am for just one hour entrapped in night:<br></br>I must endure its chill ‘til morning’s light.<br></br>
