Brown Petals Fall Poem by Paul Brookes

Still nice to see the muse is alive,
she seemed to have died,
now I know she' merely sleeping.

she passes my door but never knocks
sometimes there is a breath of expectation
a window of opportunity but the words die as they form.

trickles of lines heave themselves from my pen
knowing they could be better, unable to survive
exhausted by the effort, these puny weaklings
are still born, erased or cancelled

be brave an echo whispers, hold on to good times,
even droughts come to an end and then there is abundance.
still having lines of communication severed hurts
like a thousand paper cuts.

the spirit unfed withers, even if the roots remain intact
so I wait for a new Spring and a rebirth, after all,
there is always, as Pandora found, Hope.