I have journeyed seven mounts and seven seas
To sing you this song, my Isis.
I am a Blackbird My songs hold séance,
And, by Apollo, may this one hold you in trance.
For it is in the sonorous silence
Of what is and what is not
That for you I baulk my abience1
And in this song pour out my thought.
Oh! Why won’t my muse awaken?
Our enosis my wyldefyre2 has scorched
And now my obstinance is sunken
As I at your altar lie to have my folly flushed.
Now let me sing and your Elven3 blessing invoke,
For you are my Tolkien Elf.
I have been a Geras-plagued Oak;
Unmoving, stubborn, unthinking, an Oaf….
Ah, may Cupid guide the words out of my pen,
For how to charm you is beyond my ken!
I pray an end to this winter solstice
For your absence is to my muse an eclipse.
Many times have I upon an issue mused;
How many thoughts I could summon each day
Having met and lost you, no more am I confused,
For one thought only have I since had, one thought I say:
My love for you, my rainbow, my craft, and my art.
Now, promises to you flood my heart
As to your memories I cling,
And of all things, none can truer ring;
Than that you I love, and you alone,
Nought for my foolery can atone,
And no more am I the Shaitan you know,
Twelve moons’ purgatory has rendered me as snow.
So fly with me one more time,
And guide me gently into your heart.
To once more drink at your fount sublime;
The same fount at which once I spat.
And now, the hour is upon me,
For my song is sung in a silent scream,
And I must now wake from my reverie,
But the future belongs to we who dream.