lost in the white spaces

thinking about writing verses.
maybe the feelings that bring a dream--
as there have been so many--
or the memory of a moment,
the uncertainty of life,
all worthy topics for a verse.

but nothing inspires my soul.
I'm anxious to get to the blank page
start with any of my known letters,
only to find that I can't spin a line.

the same happens when I think about a body
I once desired, the same of a poem
I once delighted in, or a savory meal
made by my hands--
all those pleasures have deserted me;
they part with the morning dew
with the eves twilight
with the coming and going of people
at every intersection.

life has become automatic.
while my other self entertains himself
with the beauty of a sunset
or the harmonious melody of a composition,
or the humor of a sentence,
my hours are equally void of pleasures--
tasteless the once savory moments--
perhaps a brief flash of beauty in the mornings--
but the days seem to multiply themselves
becoming a long, flowing stream
whose beginning and end are indistinguishable.