No hair, no bone, nor mortal flesh,
will ever fill that void,
the aching emptiness
that welts chilblains on the soul,
and fevers burning fingers
with winter’s iciness.
No monument, no accolade
will still the inclination of every artist
to sometimes think to subjugate the will,
to shun the gift and deny the Muse’s tryst.
Something hid’ deep inside demands the dark,
as if but blindered can one truly see inspiration
flicker its tiny spark and in that flicker
find the way to free.
What creation was not born of faith?
Absolved of night we waken to the light.