Emissary

A Sonnet

I am not my surface self of rough colour
This mind made thing of grim pallor.
Another within is right and true
Stands above din and daily groove.

All things I hoarded in little time
Are now tinged with sticky grime.
The days dull and nights no better
This common coin in vain to fritter.

Into sheathed mind something does break
A voice and light of uncommon make.
Sneaks then into my time-born being
An emissary all silent and shining.

All din grows silent and sacred then
What alchemy this, shall tell no pen!

Picture Courtesy: Inderpasricha

Related Posts