Lack of Inspiration (=) The Death of the Artist

The lack of inspiration leads to the death of Artistic Expression...Or does it?
Sitting here thinking about how I was at loss for words, brang along this
poem...with a totally different outcome than expected.

                                                The Death of the Artist
I was looking through some pages, of paintings of the past,
I fingered through the images until my eyes recognized a path
worn by time and different point of view, I stopped and pondered on
what looked to be a clue.
I was reading through some pages, of writings of the past,
I fingered through the lyrics until my voice recognized a path
sung by time and different point of view, I stopped and pondered what
had happen to me... and what was it that could I do?

Time takes a certain toll, and changes us a bit. It takes all of our courage,
 all of our hope and strength. Time takes a toll on us, that words fail
to describe, it wares at our strings, and stacks up with our tries.
You never know how it will effect you, you never know where it
will take you. It's a mystery, and only it will tell.

I was looking through the crowd today of faces from the past,
I squinted through the images and tried to recognize a path,
lived by time and a different point of view, I stopped and pondered
why I couldn't find a clue.
I was reading through the pages of my writings of the past, all my
questions clearly showed, and answers proved a path,
sung with passion and in a different time and place, I stopped
and wondered where I could fall back into that grace.

Time takes a certain toll, and changes us a bit. It takes all of our courage,
all of our hope and strength. Time takes a toll on us, that words fail
to describe, it wares at our legs, and makes us crack up and dry.
You never know how it will effect you, you never know where it
will take you. It's a mystery, and only it will tell.

I took my imagination and thoughts to the cross. I knew it was time
to regain what was lost. Perhaps it was just time, perhaps just to
perceive... the beauty of His inspiration coming back to me.

I crossed my fingers and sighed so deep, that I could feel my imagination
falling asleep. The lack of inspiration weighs so hard, I could cry,
without it an Artist feels she will die!