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—
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.
to divine the numen
coursing through the chaos,
shielded by extension
of the ignited sword of cherubim—
sense the way to graveyards
and sidestep invention.
The white dove hovers over the quarking din;
the brave poet translates this dulcet wind.