Waiting for Inspiration

I stare at the screen.
It no longer calls to me.
Its shiny surface mocks with its pristine perfection.
Not a jot, not a letter,
not a vague thought waiting to be given birth.
My mind is blank,
my fingers useless appendages,
poised like soldiers waiting for a call to battle
that never comes.
Where are my children?
Have they abandoned me?
Or have I called too often
upon the well of inspiration,
and its streams are now dry?
I am a parched desert
waiting for a mirage,
a sprinkle of words,
whispers on the wind.

Visit me, my muses,
before I waste away.