Hundreds of failed attempts to write,
a sickening conclusion.
Muse in the form of feelings,
emotions,
fears,
thoughts,
dreams.
Writing, a comfort tool,
assisting in that darkest hour.  

The winds, they've changed their course,
I am rendered incapable.
Be it the fault of my failed perfection?
Or have I nothing left?

The day-to-day has become the same,
the routine that defines our lives.
Losing the ability to see,
the swirling sea of blue --
overhead.
The sharp hue of green --
beneath my feet.
The slight wisps of vivacious magic in the air.

Now everything bleeds to gray.

7A7A7A
9C9C9C
DCDCDC
C7C7C7

Nothing is beautiful anymore.
Nothing looks the same,
tastes the same,
feels the same,
smells the same.

Everything changes.