Ink Sounds

We writers ride wild

Into the turbid tension,

Unclear and inarticulate

At best,

Yet clarifying warily, lest

We mislead beleaguered readers

Into a false peace

Of factuality.

Hence why story wins

While textbooks die,

Wisdom, like the wind

At once obvious but unseen

A lovely breeze

On youthful skin,

So put the headphones in

And play the muse,

My rousing daughter of Zeus.

Sing to me, through me,

Rumble sinew and bone,

Distilling blood and ink,

Summoning the somber stench

Of Historia, ministering

The morning dose of self.

"How not to ruin it with words?"

We might ask.

The moment of melody,

I mean,

Steeped long and strong

In another man's thoughts,

Of a strange world's rhythms.

I'm driven toward renunciation

And travel

And change,

But the beauty in ancient

Chords still played

Say, life and death

Is never modern anyway,

So play the lyre

And sing your soul.

Steep long and oft

In the patterned score

Of life waves passing.

We pass the Sirens' island soon

So you who dare

To glean the tune,

Be quick and true 

To oar and ink,

For 'tis a narrow

Syllabic channel

Twixt saving song

And singing ruin.

Yay, fly your sound

And find your song, 

And sail the effervescent sea

Of He who sings to thee.