No rhymes to part my waiting lips
No words to tease my fingertips
My muse has gone on walkabout
When did the storm become a drought?
No brush to paint the empty space
No pen to sketch the smiling face
My world is grey with black and white
What happened to the coloured light?
And yet I know that beauty’s face
Can never fade without a trace
And dreams are conjured in our sleep
For rivers that inspire run deep
— Wayne Visser