Reverie

Did my words dry up Did the thoughts finally shrink and shrivel up so much that they refuse to bleed on paper anymore Do I not drink from the fountain of experiences any longer Or perhaps not bring my own cup to the party to fill it to its brim  Do I no longer crave for more Is this what being satiated mean No more yearning Is this also a death perhaps Not the dramatic bloody one But a more dignified complacent quiet one or do I perhaps judge too harshly Myself and my abilities As always my worst critic Twilight whistling past the window No more broken panes of glass But this time a sturdy wooden window Painted brickred with white curtains framing her Small plant tubs line up on the edge Some days a little bird comes by to visit me It doesn't sing of romance and life But of lovely meals and romanticising the mundanes I miss my fervour and our youthful wonder But this fine day nothing irks me more than the lost words  I should have filled the pages of that pretty diary of yours...