Flame to Ash

May I inquire

How my desire

Turned from Flame to Ash?

From Treasure into Trash?

I used to fly so often

But all the edges softened

No poetry, no motion - 

Don't cause a commotion. 

The words I used to store

Have fallen, unused, to the floor

My pen is split and bleeding ink;

I'm not as clever as you think.

I had so many goals;

Now those once-red coals

Are gray and smoking,

In need of stoking.

But all is lost - 

A pale white frost

Has settled in my mind;

Perhaps I'm no longer the creative kind.