Estranged

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Estranged

Sonnet — An Invocation to The Master #34

Like a potter I stay at turning wheel of day
And at night I mould keen my living clay,
I forge my thoughts into shapes of living
Deeds that I cast into becoming.

The net of mind I with acute will mend
And cast into waters of time to find
Some semblance of Thee drifting in space
Only to retrieve ever an empty silence.

With a quill I pursue cajoling the muse
To share Thy whereabouts, Thy secret house,
But reluctant Thy agents, to Thee sworn,
No inkling of care by them to me shown.

Are all Thy serving gods even as Thee,
Silent, aloof, estranged to heart of me?