This Dire Sport

---

This Dire Sport

Poem — An Invocation to The Master #127

What perilous gravity is Thine compulsively luring
Away from all these soil fostered beloved forms,
Wresting heart from its breast cage bleeding,
Uprooting from emotion the reluctant nerves?

What war or battle has ever been so wasteful,
The toil of years erecting a life and body,
The training of penances, the piety wonderful,
All to cull one soul flower of exquisite beauty?

Dost Thou hoard souls on some heavenly shelf,
A curious artefact Thy lonely hours to please?
Or pass the moments of a heavenly dusk brief
Debating our littleness with Thy serving daemons?

What grim game dost Thou conduct with us,
What wager enormous is cast in our birth,
Where in this maze is hid Thy redemptions
To raise us from this form bound earth?

Of this dire sport we tire in our bones O Sire,
Grant a spell of Thy smile and play and rapture.