Where did she go?
She lost herself along the way
10 years’ time, like a thief in the night
Stealing away her love, a portion at a time
To be buried in far off secluded places
That she’ll never see
Painting a portrait once came easily
Writing prose was second nature
To lift a pen, or to conjure imagery
Is now more of a task, than revelry
Why has creativity become her stranger?
Inspiration is an overnight stay
Like a traveler in a motel along the highway
Ms. Imagination and Mr. Fantasy
Once were her companions, now elusive
6 months in transition
In relative isolation
Content and yet unfulfilled
No home in which to place her heart
Nor a vacancy for it upon her sleeve
A lack of wind even, to blow away what remains