I sit alone to contemplate
the workings of a muse.
Yet the pages still seem blank, and
I wonder what's the use.
Dante wrote of hell and fire,
and Tennyson his table round.
I cry to find my purpose,
where it can be found.
My soul yearns to speak in power,
and call mankind to hear.
Fingers struggle to write the words,
weaving the strands of wyrd.
Is there some texture, a feeling
I can grasp or touch?
When it dangles on the fingertips,
I've found it and am lost.