Fruitless Ink

My pen was once filled
with all the possibilities
of seed,
enlightenment,
even therapeutic denial

but now it's as though she's wordless
from all those verses
malady sucked from her vessel
when the well was too shallow
and hope was a loveless man
who left via his white horse

My theory is:
heart truly believed
poems were the wings to soul's freedom,
but I suppose it was only a metaphor
and poetry
never really grows it's own skeleton
or feathers
or can even soar for that matter

(yet somehow, it flew away from me)