Will it ever be asked? Will it ever be admitted? Nothing will, nothing will.

For the moment I stopped writing,
For the moment I had no reason to talk.
No reason to capture tales so irrelevant that no one cared to look.
Alas I have returned,
All sorts of pens in hand:
I grew up for a moment,
So yes for the time being I can stand.
I can write about tragedies,
I can write about the past, but today,
For now until I lose my muse again,
I will plant life in a spot that doesn't move too fast.
Welcome to the present.