I

 had a poem but it is gone
dissipated as is
the passion
that once enveloped me.

The envelope, the passion
and the poem
are gone,
slowly thinned
by constraints
and conscience.

No cataclysmic moment
marked their passing.
They dispersed, like ice
slowly rising into steam
unable to withstand
the change in climate.

I had a poem
but it is gone.