Sometimes I’m afraid I’ll lose my dreams and my gods
wake up with dust in my hands and snakes in my eyes
no longer their maker, no longer made by and for them
“My spirits have fled me!” I’ll wail, and my altar will burn.
What is the worst thing for a mystic but to be barren of ideas?
What is the greatest loss to a poet than the mead of inspiration?
What is the farthest curse on a storyteller than a cut tongue?
But they always ebb and flow,
like the tide, returning,
I am never alone, and when I
think I am, there they are,
shining down on me like
the evening star.
I have carried their light for over a decade
I will not let this torch sputter dry
I will set the heavens on fire
And together, we will burn.