I call on the forces higher then I,
to wake the guide that sleeps outside, inside
the North, the South, the East, the West, the sky,
the sea and the ground. I call on the guide
that knows of my need, come with assistance,
come with dire speed. Sanctuary will not
be found here: in crystals and light, essence
of rose hip, runes bought at a store. Who taught
you this? Without death there is no magic
or art or life. The gods aren’t toys. They won’t
jump up each time you say, “so mote it be.”
Here’s the blood of our bond. Here’s the coptic
blade that served. I call on forces that don’t
answer, I call on guides that don’t serve me.