By Kay Rice
The pen has grown quiet and cold,
The stories, silent, unable to be told.
The whispers that came freely on the night wind,
Have faded and all but refused to begin.
A tear falls like a petal of a dying rose,
Words which flowed freely, now are froze.
No voice comes in the form of fresh ink,
The messenger of words, now gone in a blink.
The winter has wrapped around in a silent cover,
Silencing the pen of the muse and it’s lover.
Dreams remain tucked away like long dormant seeds,
Until the warmth returns and the pen again bleeds.
The madness that wears a mask in the day,
Lay quiet to sleep with its nightmares at bay.
Stories and journeys kept alive in the dark,
Unable to be written, unable to start.
The pen remains quiet, alone and so cold,
The stories gather dust, as memories grow old.
The whispers which arrived on moonbeams at night,
Have long since vanished with the coming of light.
All RIGHTS RESERVED