Call down the poets, for I just cannot find the words, 
Let them all wax lyrical and give shape to my tangled thoughts, 
Let the iron of their words be wrought, and ringing of their hammers heard, 
Let them forge their art in ink and paper as the truth is sought, 
Let them speak in ebony and stone and let their words be gilt,
To tend my broken spirit and mend my broken bone, 
And may the sound of sonnets make the muffled air around me filled,
With words that ring like birdsong in the dawn when deathly night has flown,
Let them heal my weeping heart and lift my spirit up on high,
That I may soar above this bleak and barren land,
Let their soft spoke words of calm and comfort dry my eye, 
Let them mend my waning will and give me strength to once more stand,
Let them put fire back in my belly and purpose in my stride, 
Let their words inspire me and be my ever thoughtful guide,
Let them be the strength in my back and the faithful friend stood at my side,
Let them help me see the truth no matter how it tries to hide,
For there is the crux of the matter, my weary eyes are blind, 
The flux and ebb and flow of life has near broke my tired mind,
And though the truth would speak to me its muffled voice cannot be heard, 
So call down all the poets boy, for I just cannot find the words.