Alas, my Muse has turned her back
and left my mind in mire;
the words my heart and soul do seek
have died, and fight respire.
The lofty thoughts and soaring words
that God allowed to me
have melted as the sand dunes
by encroaching waves of sea.

It is a gift when words we write
touch others' hearts and minds;
but now the rhyme that grants release
in murk has been confined.
It seems the writing hand has written,
burned out, run its course,
and all that's left are empty thoughts
and words, and life's remorse.

May my imagination and
my passion be inspired,
may the art of language rhymical
set my soul on fire;
and may the Muses who give birth
to poetry and song
forgive me, and allow me
to come back where I belong.
     ©  Joyce Petrosky-Hale