The colors used to sing to me,
They hummed in perfect harmony.
Bright voices tweeted to play all day,
Sober hues revealed other things to say.
Primary tones danced ‘cross the page,
Waltzing, tap-dancing their feet gave way.
Words used to call out loud to me,
Sometimes a poem with or without rhyme,
Words built upon themselves a story to tell.
The words worked wonderfully well.
Sometimes a story a novel foretold,
They didn’t care if they would sale.
Blank paper or canvas once revealed to me,
Drawing, painting some artistic endeavor,
The absence of colors called creativity,
There but not with clear visibility.
Until the blankness whispered their piece,
And mind eye becomes breathtaking realities.
How sad I am the calls grown silent!
Chilling my heart without their muse,
I feel the absence to the core of me,
The colors draining is all I see.
Silence is all my soul can hear,
What now is to become of the me I be?