From prose I seek . . .

I do not know what to write. But I want to.

If it’s not fairly obvious yet, I am someone suffering from a writer’s block.
I wonder if I ever were a writer at all?

From prose I seek,
A peace I lost deep within.
Is it fair though? I wonder,
To not create, and only receive?

See, that who marches through the sky,
Glory abound with wings of lie.
A memory lost, a dream destroyed,
On cusp of home and about to cry.

Bewildered by songs that sleep through night,
A silence, so full of noise.
Humming the whispers of a rain gone by,
A magic, to not mesmerise.

What I seek is what you shall find,
Remnants of the time that flees.
For prose I seek,
To not create, and only receive?