Miracle

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Miracle

Sonnet

Now I am become a symbol form
Of some early earth’s forgotten norm.
The muted instinct lies hesitant
And thought too shy is reticent.

All whirls to some patters etched
That Will above has secretly sketched. 
No norm of self or collective endures,
Life darts as figures on a canvas.

The ego’s agency is long shuttered,
Its commerce with senses bankrupted.
Old momentums now tiring fade,
Apparent the gears by which am composed.

This way-station of Yoga in the physical
Is the portal enroute to Master’s miracle.