Dear Inspiration

Strum my strings O spirits
Divine. With songs on your lips.
I come as a reed
A lyre to be made by thee.

The chiming clock like the footfalls of time
Her pace the hour hand mimes.
I ask for thy carving knife
Make purpose of this miserable life.

Dear Inspiration, breathe life into this pen
Or I dare no height like a one-winged wren.
From thy scroll read mystic verses to me
I to sit as a scribe only but to copy.

Vain is wit as a yacht without oar
A hapless sailor with no hope for the dreamt shore.
O that your whisper would engulf my lowly soul!
I will stay candle, inkwell, quill and scroll.

- Martins Deep

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