Dispassionate Motion

A poor beggar I now am, having spent all my emotions.
I do what I have to do, and follow the daily motions.
Inspiration is gone, and so are the poetries of life,
where once I was the King, now I merely strive.

Like a lamp in a sunny day, my efforts seem puny,
compared to the efforts of the mighty Will.
Languishing in the sludgy stream of introspection,
I procastinate and swallow the bitter pill.

Where is that crowning glory, that was once the way?
Where are those rhymes, which made the mind sway?
The pen is broken, the ink has dried,
The thoughts move slowly, from side to side.

King was I once, not any more,
the eyes are red, the crown is sore.
Gigantic waste, ocean of existence,
Clenched muscles no longer tense.
Life this is not, but a mere flow.
Where is the passionate roar?