Muse, wherefore art thou fled?

For decades I couldn’t find  a voice and what began as an experiment in healing has finally borne fruit in poetry.  Occasionally there are lapses of non-creativity, the last few weeks for example.

My muse has fled with the winter’s sun

seeking colder climes to rejuvenate

I praise his resolve to sublimate

earthly desires; all impure thoughts shun.

His remit to knit the torn, frayed edges

Of a union now rift with open sores

His own compass shattered his journey paused

He longs for icy plains, plain messages

And what my muse pines for like a twin feel

I here, where mild winter has changed to chill

and greyness hangs over damp despairing

No nightingale or any creature living

Goes near this barren craft, there’s no sweet song

where notes are flat, the rhymes and rhythms wrong

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