To the Adepts and their Initiates—

When art doesn’t make a sound,
          poetry is exorcism,
                    that craft by the precision
                              of which one’s own demons are
                                        constrained, contained by prayer, sweat-,
                                                  tear-, and blood-stains within lines
                                                            on paper, bound into books

and marked by their tales, whispered
          things no song mentions, lyrics
                    refraining from once again
                              freeing them, trapped memories
                                        filling this copper lantern,
                                                  an answer to Solomon’s
                                                            brass vessel, its silver ring

what keeps truth on truant tongues
          trembling, and troubadours from
                    mumbling, authoring temples
                              no one but the purest of souls
                                        can open, clarifying
                                                  perception, doors of scrolls to
                                                            which unblemished minds hold keys,

these cryptic words promising
          sanctuary to all who
                    can hear and see, and who will
                              keep warm that coin minted by
                                        storms, this poem sages know
                                                  pays forward divine wisdom,
                                                            like it’s priceless currency.