Skirmishes With a Pen

I sit and wait. I was here yesterday. Sitting. Waiting. Dead air. Bereft of sound Suddenly, faculty for perceiving sound is returned, and loud blown is the Gjallar horn as Heimdallr guides my pen and all in Valhalla shall sing once more Technically flawless, an opportunity to state my case before a jury of disheveled Quavers or Couplets Light and shade, tinged with solar flares. Forgotten chords brought into focus like a mammoths trunk pushing through ice Born from a deserted ghetto, notes travel through a sieved mind and flow down a river of ink to lie on a staff of competing candidates. Repeated, like a stanza's refrain Eventually, this piece of presented integrity shall be read by the corrupt, listened to by the judgemental and edified by the moribund and obsolete. Those tut-tutters arriving home from Sunday church, with their angled wrecking balls of slanted beliefs, having already secured their forgiveness; proceed to tear the larynx out of this persistent little song bird