Dying as an Art

Who was it that killed the poetry?
Quenching the fires of inspiration
and butchering the art form,
who did this?
Because today my words fail me;
not through rage and anger
where they spew forth  
with volcanic fury
in inexorable natural outburst,
but through a lack of motion
and a lack of emotion.
Where each word crawls
and sentences drag  
their limp lifeless selves
across the page that refuses to be filled
in a maddening annoyance.
It is simply a mystery  
why the well of inspiration  
has run dry
and why I must now scrape the barrel
clawing for some sense of design
beseeching lightning inspiration
to give my creation life,
as it jerks and bucks
in its death throes.
Vicious petty small voices
seek to blame something or someone
bitter at the world,
which will not grant the poem  
a lightness and life
mocking the intention with misty clouds
and shallow breezes
that with their insipidness
provoke no breath of creativity;
only a cumbersome
trudging slog
that mimics a poem
but has been murdered by neglect
warranting no meaningful investigation.