Accounts

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Accounts

Sonnet — An Invocation to The Master #132

How many cycles of harvest to reap yet
From my little being of meagre means?
After all that is drawn to satiate 
Thy inscrutable and strange impulse!

An I Thy cauldron to churn and try
New implements and dangerous potions,
To what precipice brink of possibility
Dost Thou lead my being helpless?

True, deathless is the soul immutable,
But what of the heart that doth ache,
What of toils that pass inconsequential 
And all labours done for Thy sake?

Ah, poor keeper art Thou of life’s accounts,
Yet, it is with Thee my soul seeks all recourse!