I set the tip of my pen down,
But nothing springs forward.
As though all of my inspiration has run dry.

My dearest muse;
Can you hear my cry?
To where have you flown,
Away, out of sight?

No matter how long I wait,
All the drive burning within my heart is not enough.
Rivers that once flooded over with creativity,
Now move nothing more than parched dust.

My dearest muse;
Can you hear my cry?
To where have you flown,
Away, out of sight.

I feel as though a great fire has swept across my mind,
Consuming the glorious woods of my imagination,
Leaving in its wake a chocking, black smoke,
Blinding me, drowning me in cinders.

My dearest muse;
Can you hear my cry?
To where have you flown,
Away, out of sight.

Wading through an ocean of slime,
Everything within me has slowed.
Thoughts, slowed.
Sensations, slowed.
Desires, slowed.

My dearest muse;
Can you hear my cry?
To where have you flown,
Away, out of sight.