No New Muse

No new muse,

no quick thrill,

just hollow rooms,

and time to kill.

Once, they came in waves

a rush, a flash,

a spark that saves

now only dust

on paper, stale,

a fading light,

a stifled tale.

I thought I’d always find the pull,

the endless need to chase,

but something’s left me empty, full

of silence, blank, and space.

Where once I felt a vivid flare,

each word a weight, a song,

now nothing stirs. I’m only here,

no muse to lead me on.

So I sit, I wait, I try,

fingers cold, a pen held high.

No new muse,

no small release,

just haunted lines

and quiet peace.