Mary E-A. K. Remaniak Poetry

The words that once flowed like a stream in the spring
Now sputter like a choked-out brook.
The songs that I used to sing
Lie dead and cold in the imagination.
With no inspiration, butterflies are mounted
And even coals lose their ability to cause flame.
Not trying to write became my melody,
Now attempts fade away to the blackness of failure.
Beautiful creations of art and song
Are dead and cold in the making
Because the guiding spirit fled when I healed.
When will the muse revisit my hands
And let my voice soar again?

Poet: Mary E-A. K. Remaniak