I am off poetry for now.

The phrases filling up my head

are tired, overworked, and dead.

"The sun, the moon, thy face"-- how trite!

No, I am in no mood to write.

I am off poetry for now.

My muse is out of character;

its focus is on only her;

my normal angst is out of place

when fireworks outline her face.

I am off poetry for now,

for how could anyone not hate

this loving nothing I create

with vapid whimsy; "empty" verse

has never sounded so perverse!

I am off poetry for now --

but wait, she calls me back again

away from my poetic den

to springtime, fresh and clear and free,

where nothing counts but she and me.

I am off, poetry, for now.