When the muse will not sing
and time hides the shaman:
white oblivion blinds the poet,

the deafening bells of influence pealing
through corridors common—
quartetless violist.

Patience for the soaring note
stays the spinning black void
that consumes wayward scribes.

Ground yourself in the art of your finished odes
fired from fairy introit.
’Til the breeze brings your guide.