Something’s happened inside,
The writing bug’s not alive.
Slowly, surely, something….
Something gnawed away within.
Once a poetic epicenter,
Now a daunting ruin.
As prose decayed on the lips,
The poet perished within.
No sunny days to laugh about,
Rains don’t break the grimace.
A perpetual haze surrounds it.
Impermeable, time stands still.
A shaft of light yet shines through,
Stabbing cracks in the resilient haze.
Is this sweet promise
Or an illusion of the same?
Soon, soon we shall know,
Has the bug moved on or stayed.
Then, only then can we begin
Considering how to evolve, innovate
