Black Swan

It is hard to explain

how a piece of paper is

excruciatingly difficult to fill

when years ago words would have written themselves without a second thought

How the weight of a pen 

is now a familiar stranger

like once-lovers meeting at crossroads

after a particularly painful parting

How melodies that used to play

now sound dusty and distracted

when they once rang as clear as rainwater

and sounded as sweet as the taste

Like a dance only half-remembered,

steps mostly forgotten

though the song still plays over and over

like a broken record in an old woman's heart

It is truly

frightening

to feel as though all your senses

have been dimmed

For that is exactly how it feels

it is not living

What use is the richest of wines

if one cannot taste it

The loveliest of masterpieces

if one cannot see it

What use is a dancer without her legs

a singer with no voice

an artist with no brush

a photographer with no camera

What use is a writer

if she cannot write?

If the words that once knew her name

rushed to her fingers, eager to do her bidding

caressed her lips lovingly with the gentlest of touches

have all but disappeared

Abandonment

Suddenly the world is nothing

but muted skies of grey

and silence; deafening silence

It is enough to drive her mad.

Over and over again she tries

sitting alone

silently begging her hands to do something

navigate the ivory darkness somehow

All of a sudden

dark and cold overwhelm

and the pathways once shown to her - the patterns she once saw - 

they are all gone.

What use is a writer

if she cannot write?

And the one thought that keeps her sleepless

//What if she never remembers how to wield her weapon?

If she never remembers how to write again

to bring her art back to life//

She fears there will be nothing left

There will be nothing to live for

and she will only waste away

trying to remember