New Battle

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New Battle

Sonnet

My slate is emptied of all scrawls,
The chalked figurines laboriously drawn
Of conceptions made through night and morn
In this strange air that every desire kills.

Anchorless my will dwells floating by
Upon routine storms of time and fate,
The winds of becoming only grate
In this strange night of a cold moon-eye.

But draw up I must a newer dream,
Mine by muse a shining word,
By its light reforge all my world,
For not to yield did my soul birth assume.

This new battle I shall wage for Thee,
By Thy light that dwells in heart of me.