empty inkwells

 
I don't know if we just get tired
too much grind in our lives
as we slip into a poetic coma
muttering under our breath
whispering our thoughts & feelings
just trying to give them release
but they emerge...
...lackluster at best
as we look back into our past
studying our words & intensity of their verve
how we attacked the page with such savagery
our pen making a permanent impression
lightning in our words
thunder in our verse
the stomp & the swing
the rhythm of their beat
...how easy we made it all seem
stringing stanzas together with such passion
and now we look backward & wonder where all that brass went
how did we lose the magnetic infusion
the potion that set our quills in fiery motion
here we are now...
leaving our pages with barely greying stains
less impactful...though just as factual
not bad...just lacking
falling short of our former explosive nature
when words dropped into a room
...setting off bombs left & right
as we arrogantly turned our burning energy to the next one...& the one after that
perhaps our fire seemed brighter for all the bodies surrounding it
as the faces slowly faded away
...their absence dimmed the glow
it eventually diminished a blaze
cooling to mere embers
and one day we look up & see how far we've sunk into a poetic funk
but can't find the ink to escape it
so we submerge ourselves into our previous lines
hoping to reignite the fire
shaking our heads...
...we were like giants
so rebellious & defiant
...how did we dwindle so far
...losing the spark that created legends of mere men
I'd love to know...
...where that magic went...