It was not Loss, for I had my hands full

It was not Loss, for I had my hands full,

And all the Losers are lacking

It was not Time, for I had more than enough,

And the bell sung its tune each hour

It was not Worry, for under my skin

I felt nothing crawl

Nor a need for Rest, for my eyes were open

While everyone else slept

And yet, I tasted nothing,

The altars of the dead

Reminded me of lives lived -

Except mine

As if my body were emptied,

And left as a shell,

And made weightless,   

And unable to desire -

With every song that lacked meaning,

And every voice that left no sound,   

And every note that remained flat,

The distance became greater  

The death of the last muse,

A mass extinction of poets

Or even a child’s lack of imagination

Could justify an Uninspired state of mind.