Before His Lamp of Oil

One must take care, it seems to me,
What book of poems to select
To bend one’s style and awaken the muse
That sleeps within
For the energy beckons to write
Relieving that need to stay awake
Through the night as the muse
Screeches at the top of her lungs
To gain my immediate attention.
But sometimes one has little to say
And wants another perspective
Another view, a breath of fresh air,
As it were, to let the light in
From beneath the window shade
And then one must read with feeling
The words struggled over by another poet
In the wee hours before his lamp of oil.