Can’t write anymore

Those days I would write abundant rhymes and paeans
from nocturnal moon hours
to setting sun
than what I could write for you today in an open letter
sitting in this deserted tavern.
You are aware, I had written poems on your eyebrows,
captured the experiences of life and its throes,
like a portraitist painted the auguries of passing seasons

But see the conspiracy of my will against my determination
the words don’t play in my mind anymore
nor I get that wisdom,
My fingers feel no more
the dance of my mighty pen.
Thoughts play the notorious game
of hide and seek like a mischievous Sun
and disappears in the lap of the dark mists,
day after day, not to say
being out of sight besides out of my mind,
leaving my heart’s sky shadowed
by your long cobweb
of lush black hair hovering over.

Though sometimes I get to read
my own thoughts
when the sun comes downhill
to take a dip in that nearby creek,
when the inside of my mind,
I get intermittent appearances of your silhouette
like I am swinging between life and bereavement.

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