The Poet In Me Is Dead. . .

“Rebirth of the Poet’s Soul”

“The poet in me is dead,” I said with a heavy heart,

As if creativity had fled, torn apart, torn apart.

The words that once flowed like a river’s gentle stream,

Now seem lost in shadows, like a forgotten dream.

But deep within, a spark remains, a flicker in the night,

A glimmer of hope, a tiny light, burning so bright.

For though the poet may seem gone, the fire’s not truly gone,

It lingers in the soul, waiting to be drawn upon.

Perhaps it’s just a moment’s rest, a quiet interlude

A time to gather thoughts, to be renewed, renewed.

The poet in me may slumber, may take a little break,

But it’s a chance to grow, to recreate, to recreate.

For life’s a tapestry of stories waiting to be told,

In every breath we take, in every hand we hold.

The poet in me will rise again, with words so pure and true,

To paint the world with verses, to share them all with you.

So mourn not for the poet lost, but celebrate the pause,

For in the stillness, in the silence, there’s a greater cause.

The poet in me will resurrect, will find its voice once more,

And together we’ll explore the realms of art and lore.