My bag is empty.
Filled with silent misery.
Drained by trickery.
I have lost my gift instantly.
The poetry within me weeps.
So does the pen and the ink,
waiting in disbelief as they
stare at my troubled drift.
Oh words where is your magic?
Those flames that burns with untainted mastery.
The touch of a masterpiece.
Where is your chant of praises?
That everything would listen truly enriched and by your grace the non-living comes alive in haste.
My eyes have seen true beauty .
My heartbeat rush in disunity.
The angels would certainly die of envy,
for never a time have i failed to be the poet
but for this quaint and fair lady am lost for words.
Thanks for reading my poem.@originalworks
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STOPThanks