Dry Spell

Words have stopped,
Songs silenced,
Paints dried, flaking,
Feet no longer tapping rhythms.

It is a sort of death;
Living, yet without breath,
A rigor mortis of the soul,
This halt in creativity.

Something eclipsed
The silver moon of spontaneity,
The rainbow glow of promise,
Leaving only a cold, shadowy
Place to mourn
A loss.

by Raynette Eitel

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