Invocation -

(sonnet)
The time has come again to raise the dead,    
We cast our souls upon your waters’ fire.    
That smoke from burning rocks on winds are fled,    
And words are born from ash of funeral pyre.      
 
Your tresses hang on fervent mothers’ breast,    
Your wings expand to cover all that’s seen.    
Now shower milk of verse for our success,    
And show the heart’s inspire from all that’s been.    
 
Are Poets lost without your honeyed gifts,    
And flounder with the words you won’t beguile.    
But with a single breath, your graces lift    
And echo songs that free our hearts’ exile.    
 
Oh, honored Muse, we humble bow to you,    
That with your touch, you equal honor do.