Unmoored Poet Poem by Dee Gey

On that lonely shelf, the Book of Love lay,
Pages yellowed, words fading away.
The heart that penned those tender lines,
Now silenced, like a muted lullaby.

The vibrant writer lost to the night,
Leaving shadows where once was light.
The poet sat still, with stifled hands,
Feeling the weight of unspoken plans.

Her moments hover like endless night,
Sentiments echoed in whispered sighs.
Dreams lie dormant, hopes are curled,
An eternal pause in her frozen world.

The poet wept softly, blurring her eyes,
As memories of the writer flew by.
Her words spilled softly, scribbled in pain,
A silent tribute to her love's remains.

Unfinished verses hung, suspended in air,
Resonating sorrow too deep to declare.
As she walked on, in this life all alone,
She wanders in silence, dreams withdrawn.

Though heart turned to stone, the poet writes on,
Each line a reminder that her muse now is gone.
Even in the twilight, beneath the pale moon,
She calls his name, with a haunting tune.