Drought

Is it that I am loosing my grace?
Poetry does not come to me anymore
Like it did on the first days of Autumn;
Winter approaches, dark and cold,
With a promise to snuff out the light,
The passion that burns within.
Will it end so soon?
But I do not wish it to end,
It is not because I am bored or wicked,
Nor is it that my Love is dead,
I did mean every word I said,
I always have …
But I fear, this I dread,
It would render me fallible again.