Words fail me

Have I lost my rhyme?

In the learning to be alone,

Do I still hear the cadence?

Do I still feel the words?

In their absence, do I ramble?

And say nothing?

The sweet poetry has become a stranger.

I once felt it as a comforting quilt.

Making sense, it flowed from my soul.

Images became words and words became dreams.

I took them for granted, perhaps.

And one day, as the sun set, they left me.

Words

I am reading Pat Conroy's "My Reading Life". He's been a favorite author of mine for a long time and I find it  interesting to read about the books and the people who gave him inspiration. I feel that way about any artist - to learn what brings them to the page or the canvas or the lens is fascinating to me.

Mr. Conroy writes about keeping journals - of words; words that he would hear or read somewhere and feel a connection. They would eventually, when he would return to them,  help him weave wonderful stories.