It seems like such a long time since the poet went into hiding. I don’t even know what the reason was for him to go away. Perhaps there is just too much going on in the world for him to focus. Still, I do not like it when he’s away. There is a void in the soul when that voice is silent. An incomplete spirit that has lost the tongue of truth. It is always with a trepidation of loneliness accommodating the absence. Try as I might to find him, he is elusive in the surrounding space.

It is a constant source of worry that I would lose that inner voice. There are others around me that when asked what they are thinking about state that they have nothing on their minds. I wonder how that can be as I always have something going on up there. Sometimes I fantasize over the idea of a silent mind. Yet I would not be the same person should it be that way. What I dislike more than a silence is the distraction that can cause a thought mute of forgotten. A lost thought is mourned like a love that has gone. Only born again when found does the fondness return to the heart.

So here I sit waiting for the return. Fretting over the possibility of reason. Pondering the cause of such treason. Alone to minor whimsies of thought. Searching him out only brings with it an inevitable conclusion of naught. The poet will return at his own fancy. Perhaps bringing with him a new muse to court. Maybe carrying an arsenal of newly found diction and expressions. I hope he comes back soon, even empty-handed for the moment, so that I may embrace that voice once again. For even while in the cacophony of thought I find that without him it is just a dead space filled with empty noise.