The Fact: my muse

My muse is playing a tune too soft -

not a word is written, not a note is printed...

My heart plays tricks and rides the wind -

this storm won't stop, this storm is fraught...

When will relief meet my beliefs?

It's like jasmine that blooms too late: sweet and fleeting...

My green is low and there's nothing to sow.

Stalks grow high and in high demand, 

but it's forced to grow in these shifting sands.

My ears can't take another round

since what resounds is to what we're bound.

No hope's in sight, but maybe sound.

Why not say and not think of "They"?

This, your muse, will come to fruition:

Write your mind and speak your soul

for only then you'll get on a roll.

This, your heart, will help you ground - 

plant your feet in fertile soil, 

and let the rot blow past in toil.

Relief will come in a time of Three.

You will not know, and you will not see. 

Though I speak in rhyme I tell you right: 

stay away from shifting sands 

for they only thrive in a barren lands.

Stand up and write or sit down in spite.

Whether you act or whether you're sacked

you can always find The Fact.