Uninspired

I feel so uninspired
I fear I've lost my muse
Perhaps it never left me
but its presence was a ruse

Of what things should I write?
Of war, of love, of God?
Who would ever read them?
Who would touch them? With what rod?

Is there a sadness in my heart?
Is there fear or love?
What I'd give for passion enough
To write of all those above

But my heart settles in complacency
My worries do not persist
I am a lake, so placid
My heart does not exist

Why is life so bland inside?
When did my fire die?
Perhaps I've settled, no longer to mettle
In the things that make great life.