POETRY

The Yellows Taste Like Mustard

2nd Saturday Prompt: Writer’s Block

Photo by Michael Hamments on Unsplash

My sun refuses to shine —

while playing hide ‘n seek
with the moon
cloaking itself in
doubting images that
eclipsed my rays

my moon has since stopped searching

now, my yellows taste like mustard
my purples have lost their lilac scent

my Venus has stopped rising
my cardinals have ceased calling

and my words —
yes, those psychedelic ones
that used to dance off my fingers
and wave like ribbons of a rainbow — 
heavy sigh,
are no longer kaleidoscopic

my ideas have become frustrated
syllables teetering on the edge —
my creative frenzy numb
just beyond reach

and instead of dancing with myself
I’m simply stealing from myself

oh, for my muse to tickle my verse