No Ideas
My muses waned
In the world of words, where muses wane,
I grapple with the poet’s bane,
A vast expanse, devoid of schemes,
My thoughts adrift in endless dreams.
I’ve roamed through forests of metaphor,
Climbed mountains high, and sought for more,
Yet here I stand, a weary bard,
With creativity’s regard now marred.
The inkwell’s dry, the pen unspun,
As inspiration’s race seems run,
I’ve sailed the seas of eloquence,
But now I’m caught in reticence.
No sonnets bloom, no verses flow,
As I traverse this arid plateau,
The words once ripe, now withered, frail,
Like autumn leaves in a fading tale.
I’ve combed through memories, sifted through pain,
Yet poems elude, like fleeting rain,
In the silent chambers of my mind,
The poet’s torch no longer shined.
I’ve plumbed the depths of love and loss,
Of nature’s beauty, and tempest’s toss,
But now I’m stranded on thought’s shore,
Seeking ideas, forevermore.
The stars above, they twinkle bright,
A constellation of endless night,
Each a word, a spark, a notion,
Yet none align in perfect devotion.
The moon, a pale and ghostly sphere,
Whispers secrets I strain to hear,
But inspiration stays concealed,
In a labyrinth, unrevealed.
I’ve pondered life, its mysteries vast,
The future’s promise, the haunted past,
Yet my quill remains untouched by grace,
In this barren, desolate space.
But in this moment of empty rhyme,
I’ll wait for dawn, for a spark in time,
For the wellspring of creativity’s stream,
To rescue me from this endless dream.
For poets, too, must pause and rest,
In the vast terrain of thought’s conquest,
And when the drought begins to cease,
I’ll find my words, my inner peace.
With every sunrise, hope’s renewed,
As creativity’s fire is pursued,
Though I’m lost now in this maze,
I’ll find my way through endless days.
I’ll seek inspiration far and wide,
In every corner, let it reside,
In the rustle of leaves and ocean’s roar,
In the quiet moments, I’ll explore.
Through city streets and mountain peaks,
In whispered secrets that nature speaks,
I’ll gather fragments, small and grand,
And craft them with a skillful hand.
For in this struggle, I still believe,
In the magic words alone can weave,
A tapestry of thought and grace,
In the boundless realm of endless space.
So let this dry spell be a test,
A challenge to persist, my best,
For in these trials, I shall find,
A treasure trove within my mind.
In the world of words, where muses wane,
I’ll rise above the poet’s pain,
With patience and resolve, I’ll find,
A new poem born of heart and mind.
