Insufficient

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Insufficient

Sonnet

Of common acts I find no more the root
Of need or desire or even ambition’s fruit.
All aims float like some airy shaped mist,
They pass insubstantial as if to be missed.

All ideal’s banners seem hollow and old,
My being stirs not for its aims gone cold.
No thought or feeling give me a lever’s hold.
I am, but loathe to become by a grey mould.

Only one thing fuels my living ember,
A resonance of Thee in body to remember.
Thy name heard thrills me with a tremour,
It seems I have birthed within a fervour.

Insufficient is this, script more of my hours and days,
Let me pour Thy blazes upon these dull earthly ways.