Creative Frustration

I set my words to perpetuating sound
Grabbing at scraps from the mother’s nest.
Seeking beyond my own dedication something deep.

I halted before the jury of them.
Seeking a mission to know my place.

I wrought only from the ruins of grace.
And empty literature into this place.

To quote a line here and write a poem there
In hopes I would snare a muse,
Ney deigning to appear.

I sought a way out from under my mind,
And the works, and glory they have me blind.

I cannot seek out that which I try to find,
Because, because my own words make me blind.

Blindness, blinding flash of light all fallen, fallen now.

I seek an opportunity, a note I write, to free the bird from the tower.
And open something new at first glance.

To bend poetry to whim and make artifice something less than a sin.