Maybe all the words have been said already.
There’s nothing more to be teased out of the ether -
you fear that’s all in your past. Oh yes, once you had
the gift, and so you revisit your old works again and
yet again, searching vainly for breadcrumbs that might
lead you back to the source of it all, some dormant
corner of your brain where lurks your old knack for
describing the world with devastating clarity.
But your universe is dimmer, duller now.
While once the ordinary arrived at your
threshold imbued with a furtive magic that
you knew just how to reveal, today you find
the world simply mundane. Still, you press
your fingers to the keys with dogged regularity.
Alas, no rainbows burst forth. No deeper meanings
blossom on the page. There’s no poetry left.
for We Write Poems – Poet’s Choice prompt: writing on writing