Empty pages taunted
Empty phrases spilled

His death she never felt
His life all but forgotten

In her soul he hid
In her mind he festered

As her spirit cried
As her spirit languished

She searched the mountains high
She searched the raging seas

Looking for her voice
Looking for her song

“Where are you?”
“Where are you?”

Time stretched forever 
Time stretched eternity

He finally spoke her name
He finally whispered to her...

“I am here”
“I am here”

In dreams and apparitions
In fairy tales he called

But she could not hear him
But she could not see

So he hid far away
So he buried down deep 

Waiting for release
Waiting for rebirth

To restore her forgotten voice
To restore her forgotten song

Posted on October 4th, 2018

I hate to over-explain my poems, but I know some people appreciate a bit of insight. This is actually about "muse" and writing voice. When one is struggling with writer's block, or even to develop their own unique style, it can be a long, painful, and lonely process. I don't necessarily believe in "muse," but I know a good number of people who do, and feel it is almost a physical person or power. Anyhow, when your muse leaves, you can feel just as abandoned as losing a loved one. As I continued to struggle with this writer's block of sorts, this poem speaks to me.