No Jewels

As I grow old
and now approach my Moiraid end
the writing skills that I was taught,
that I acquired
and used with some elan,
throughout my life
for working up good poetry
have all become like renegades
to me.

Fair metaphors and similes
that once dripped from my pen
without a moment’s thought,
have in these dimming days
become things lost in fogs.

And oh!
no matter how much effort
I expend in search of them,
an easy apprehension of the kinds
of fine, enchanting words
that was much mine when I was young,
that had the envious and subtle power
to make a lover pliable
and eager for my touch
have set themselves beyond
my sight, beyond my grasp.

I’m fraught with an un-mused imagination
that’s been leeched and sapped and drained
by all the witherings of age.
And here, upon my desk,
lies once again accusingly
an empty page.