Now who is this who speaks within,
With wistful voice yet wordless urgency?
My squinting mind this gleam infatuates,
As sharp impressions from a muddled mist,
Of vision vague yet unmistaken gist,
Conceiving fertile notions from the din,
Of garbled inspiration meant for me
That beckons through prophetic straits.
To what degree must I respect
Emotions and objectives undefined,
In raw estate, in process half unborn,
Like sacred vessels not for plebes to touch?
Can we react too little as too much
From wonder while from duty we defect,
As we neglect to get a grip and grind
The gist we hold with honor sworn?
Initial pulses jotting out
Sequential phrases yet in disarray,
Like careless comets crossing starry skies,
Their fleeting flying splendor falls from sight.
So restless rebels armed with arts to fight
The domination of the heart, to bout,
Not rout, like smiths the pummeled metals sway,
Reveal the voice in order wise.
