You give me a prompt
to excite the lost writer in me
to bring out the words, the lyrical melodies.
Yet, I feel clinched by an evil power
that subdues my talent, my endowment, my art.
I want to break-free
be the fearless knight, whose power resides in pen
as his arm
render delightful shape to the words that were
once my grace.
To look at the sunrise in the east
and pen down a poetry
basked in the pleasures of the first light of the
day
bathing the world in new hope, zeal and vigor to
play our games,
be the best in our trades.
I yearn to go back to the days
when a writer in me could even create from haze
that moistens the window after a long cold night
engulfed in fog, dazed.
I long to view the words flow like river
Cascading into a large pool full of wonders.
Will it ever be the same?
Will I ever bathe in the warmth of dayspring,
again?
