Silent As Darkest Night

J. Scott Smith

"Why aren't you writing?" so you've asked
And you, and you, and also you
"Why not? Are you lacking a muse?
A she in whose promise you basked?"

Maybe, yes, perhaps it is so
For then, whenever I peered out
As much as this mask will allow
There was life and days to follow

No matter the blinds held over
My eyes beheld them as nothing
Could see through them, see some thing
Some place, some one or forever

But now? Now no muse can find me
Nor unchain my soul from bindings
That weigh me down. See now? Crushing
What life, what love, remains for me

"Why don't I write?" Indeed, be sure
Had I the words, then I would say
"Return, my muse and light my day,
Fill my nights, and lend me your cure."

Those would be my next words spoken
My next thoughts should linger on you
Myself renewed next breath I drew
But for a door locked, not open

Sad eyes, see an arm's length, no more
Sad ears, hear not sorrow nor joy
Sad lips, for naught do I employ
Sad heart, a mute muse from before

So ask me, not why I don't write
Rather inquire of what transpired
That left me thus, so uninspired
My pen silent as darkest night

October 2013
Plain Text


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