Death of a Poet

“When the pen falls silent that once danced to the muse’s command and when the poet’s heart no longer beats with rhyme, we realize that the poet in us is dead. It is a sad truth difficult to reckon.” ~ By Poet Far from the din of madding crowd, And away from the bustle of city streets, I withdrew into a solitary spot, To turn my thoughts into dazzling verse. Shelley and Shakespeare came in view, Emily and Eliot fell in line, Their verse ringing loud and clear, Their energy fanning fire within I dreamt of putting proper words, To clothe my thoughts in striking notes, Longed to pour my loaded heart, In powerful verse to move the hearts But as I started scrawling down, All that I had stored in hoards – Ebbed out into mere froth and foam, Leaving bits of broken thoughts I sallied out for a stunning theme, And stroked my pen to put it down, But topics eluded me one by one, Unable to decide on what to dwell, I rummaged my memory for apt words, And dallied round with lofty themes Yet nothing other than splintered thoughts, And hackneyed phrases came alive. I strained hard to give them life, And labored in vain to make them rhyme, ‘The Blazing Sun’ and ‘the Brilliant Star’, Both faded out with no trace of glow. I envisioned before me the Sacred Mount, To drink from the fountain gushing down, But hot lava spurted out, And the wings of fancy burnt outright! No Muse appeared to enliven me, Nor my fantasy lingered long, The words that once flowed like honey Dried up with no inspiration, coming to nourish. Staring blank into the scroll in front, Unable to scribble even a moving thought, Like a soldier vanquished in war, I put away my paper and pen. I greatly lament the death of the poet in me, And wonder if ever will have a rebirth!