Sometimes, it is a desert.
Parched and seemingly incapable of new growth.
Like no words will ever flow from the usual hole.
At other times, it’s a marshy pool; turgid in its very filthiness,
murky depths hidden for what seems like aeons.
Then you remember the days of abundance,
When the muse poured out large streams of abundant blessedness.
While you wallow and wish for the pleasant days of a free flowing pen.
When you were young and favoured by her;
It would never have looked like you see now.
With your dreams and idealism,
you knew that she would be your redemption.
Sad that now you are lost, wandering in the embers of a soon forgotten dream.
A relic of a noble endeavour that ultimately dries all her patrons.