Whenever the heart sinks down low
It turns to the perfect art of Apollo
The metered guidance it will follow
And it`s vision becomes less narrow
From the sinew to the marrow
Spirits fly, like a small sparrow
His voice, the wind, gives direction
On the search for poetic perfection
Constructing each verbal conception
Built for another`s iris inspection
Each whisper lifts the soul to the sky
Upon the azure the heart will soon fly
The years of tireless, dedicated creation
With all to show for it, only frustration
Leaves the heart all to ready to quit
Yet the will and spirit cannot submit
The mind often stands at upon the brink, the edge
Thinking similar thoughts of a jumper on a high ledge
It`s when the heart is prepared for the fatal fall
It is halted by hearing some form of Apollo`s call
Composed By: Andrew Drucker
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