I feel like my inspiration has left,
perspired right through my pores.
The world doesn't look the same out my window.
It is the same window, even the same view
but the small things have lost their importance.
The birds singing, or dogs barking,
the wind rustling the leaves,
doesn't have the same effect on me as it did even a month ago.
I am strangely empty, vacant.
There is not even an abyss I can draw from.
At least that in something,
an insurmountable nothing but something all the same.
This feeling is like that strange time
only in the summer,
just before sunrise,
when the bugs cease and just before the birds start their games,
there is only the dew and silence.
I think of a mountain, a mountain somewhere
in Antarctica maybe.
A magnificently vast, ranging mountain,
its summit mysteriously cloaked by a passing storm.
There was a time when such things
would have been shrouded in legend and myth.
