This not a poem, it is a ritual text, a call to the wild and treacherous path of the creative who sees beyond the veil. It speaks to a very specific cast of crafters. Written for those whose perception is both a gift and at times a heavy weight, it speaks directly to the soul of the artist-mystic, the one who walks through the world not merely observing, but translating it into shape, colour, line, dance, form and verse.

This invocation serves as a sacred mirror for the visionaries who find themselves suspended between worlds: half here, half somewhere else. Where pigment hums with electric, cosmic residue and words arrive with a harsh bite of truth. 

It is for the ones who cannot help but see the architecture of the invisible within the mundane. For whom the body becomes altar, the pen becomes blade, and art becomes the consecrated space. Where word becomes flesh. Where shadow is not cast out, but honoured, housed, whispered to and transformed.

The text invites the reader into a solemn vow: to create not from ego, but from the deep listening. To be a sacred conduit of the Void. To meet the ancient ache that lives in the marrow of the tormented and gifted, and shape it with reverence. It speaks honestly of the tangible dread, that to create is also to summon, and to summon is to be forever changed.

Yet, it also bestows power in the recognition that when we create, we do so not alone. That the act of shaping the unseen is a rite of passage, a form of divine remembering. Here, the artist is not a hobbyist but a priestess, seer, a channeller, a cartographer of the soul’s unspoken realms.

This piece is designed to be read aloud as a personal invocation before entering any creative act. As you do so, you release particles of this spell’s existence, as an energy form into both dimensions known and those still calling you to discover, free them, spread them far and wide. Become a source of ignition to fuel it’s creative spark amongst the many. It may be used in ritual, in meditation, or as a vow to the muses that move through you. It is both shield and sword. It is reminder and reckoning. It is for the shadow soldiers, defiant and raw. It is for the ones who cannot not create, who carry the sacred ache of vision, and long to give it shape. Those who listen to this call, know it overrides all.

So let this spell live in your studio, your sketchbook, your sacred space. Read it whenever you need to Awaken you power, to know that you wield the magick but do so with the responsibility to honour that which is called forth, manifest it and give it safety, a place to dwell and call home.  Let it open the door between worlds. Let it plunge you deep within. Let the enchanted work begin.

I also dedicated this to Otep Shamaya, watch the video on YouTube (or jump to 7:49 – 12:23 for the Invocation) for that prelude dedication and the reasons why, and I would love to hear your feedback. How did this ritual text resonate with you? Is there somebody that has inspired your creative journey, stoke your defiant fire or even just to keep pushing forth, like Otep has for me? Have you created your own artwork that honours this sacred process? I’d love to hear about it!

For now, I leave you with the full poem and I hope you allow yourself a few moments of reflection afterward to honour the energy form that has been called forth into your own world and to perhaps reflect on your own role as an Artist-Mystic.

“For the One who sees too much..this is Invocation of the Artist”

I stand at the edge of form and flame,
brush in hand, or pen – my blades.
Whatever medium sings today,
I offer spine, I offer name.
I offer hands to ignite the flame.

Let it be known, I do not paint for beauty’s sake.
I do not write to soothe or fake.
I do not create to comfort or lark.
I craft from shadow, ash, bark and bone,
from realms unseen, where I’ve long roamed.

I seek out hush that precedes the act.
Not of silence but a breath, holding back.
Before tides of visions come clawing through,
demanding form, demanding truth.

You see, the world is not a world to me,
it is composition, shifting endlessly.
The I AM is not behind these eyes,
but slipping through the in-between,
where pigment speaks,
with carnivorous teeth unseen.

For I have housed my darkness well.
I gave it canvas. I gave it spell.
I have let it dance on paper and porcelain skin,
where it could crack, and safely breathe within.

I used to bleed It just to live.
Now I shape It, to It I gift
sanctuary with intent.
where It is witnessed, and not unspent.

But still there is fear
that sometimes seeps in.
For the darkness is my seductive, ancient friend.
To pick up pen, may lead to be burned again.

But to not do so, might devour me beyond mend.
What if the gates swings far too wide?
What if I bring forth what should not rise?
What if I name the thing beneath,
and it becomes what others breathe?

This is not play. This is not soft.
This is the Void, in starfire cloth.
This is the hum in sub-atomic ache,
the place where pigment learns to break.
A palette ground from cosmic dust,
from rust and bone, from ancient lust.

And so I vow, to channel true.
To be the vessel It moves through.
To listen deep, before I call.
To rise in ritual, or not at all.
To honour fire, to sculpt the clay,
and all the things I shall not name.

For I am the eye. I am the hand.
I am the rite. I am the land.
Where visions root and shadows have bloomed,
a garden grown in sacred gloom.

Let no illusion guide my aim.
Let no fear undo the flame.
Let all I craft be wild and wise,
witnessed by stars, and the watching skies.

When I create, I draw It in.
Only the real see beyond skin.
The artist drives, and I obey.
The sacred path, the only way.
To this oath, loyal I stay.
For this, is the Creator’s way. 

With these words the spell is done,
Let the work begin, the offering has begun.
So mote it be.