'Breathe some life into me, damn it. You've ignored me now for months. Every day I grow weaker; wither on your creative vine. Why have you allowed me to fall from inspiration's grasp? I remember when I was your favorite genre. When you blissfully invited me entrance; composed me in those hallowed moments I whispered in your ear. When my pulsating rhythms spurred you to commit me to paper. Help! Resuscitate me, before my dying embers turn to ash in your apathy.'
A silent prayer
Plucks at poet's heartstrings
Enlightened attempt
Where are you my haibun? My metronome waits, struck motionless by your absence. My pen, rests poised and silent, knocking at death's door. The poetic form that painted my soul speaks to me no more. You could never be written on demand. You and you alone determine when your chorus will manifest its song on my page.
passing in the dark
two ships blind to each other
missed reunion
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