Thy Hour

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Thy Hour

Poem — An Invocation to The Master #94

Many sheaths of selves has the soul,
Layer upon layer deposited like silt
From the waters of life that ever roll
Through drama of body’s play act.

How many melodies have failed within,
Notes somber and achingly poignant
Of dream songs that called for heaven,
All now settled to the subconscient.

How many yokes to snuff the spark,
Rising whiplashes from abyss below
To submit a pain-tax to fiefdom dark,
Reluctant for an easy breath to allow.

Harsh are the toils in these iron-fields,
How long ere Thy dawn and fair spring,
Taut like war-weapons are our nerves,
Hearts like drums of fear resounding.

O Sire, O Succour Divine, is it Thy hour yet,
For our repose from battles of day and night?