Arrange These

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Arrange These

Sonnet — An Invocation to The Master #139

What care is in Thy hands that slowly scuttle
My mind to make it an instrument pliant,
Such caution in Thy will of endless mettle
Uprooting my feeling from heart’s root.

My body is as a ship upon a stirless ocean,
Only in memory lives motions of Thy breath
That once filled my sails for progression,
I drift in a meagre circle of my being’s width.

Strange twilights visit in my noon reverie,
There I glimpsed a new azure part unveiled,
A clutch of symbols rose there cryptically
Intoning meaning to which am yet closed.

Oh arrange these all for better uses,
Leave not my soul to these silent spaces.