Mute speech

The ink is dry,
My pen is parched;
A stream of thoughts
Words refuse to flow.

A poet, author, am I,
They call me so- whatever!
I am the poet, author
What would they know?

I pant as I trek this hill
With my bag of paper, pens
I want to trek up and ink it down
I huff and pant to reach the top...

...Here I am, atop the hill
On a sunny day, a summer noon
Miles of landscape stretched around me
Patches of green, grey, reddish-brown

Green, grey, reddish-brown
Will sing in chorus,
To the tune of my words...
I wait for the music to play.

I look around, all objects of beauty
Stand in silence.
The hills are mute, there’s no chorus
The landscape is mute, there’s silence

I am the poet, author
Why, oh, why
Don’t the objects of beauty
Sing with my words

But wait...
The ink is dry, yes it is.
My pen is parched; Waits for the ink.
Words won’t flow; they won’t.

The ink is dry, why?
My pen is parched, why?
I yell to the miles of silence
Around me.

Won’t flow, flow...
It’s parched...parched
The hills speak.
When did I lose my words?
Lost words... lost words...
The hills repeat

You ran... you ran...
And words slipped away
Until one day, words wouldn’t sing
The ink was dry and the pen parched.

Until one day,
You stood atop the hill
Waiting for the chorus
While the hills stood mute

Until one day,
You reached atop the hill; and there
You shrunk smaller and smaller
Into miles of silence.