Us Deliver!

---

Us Deliver!

Sonnet — An Invocation to The Master #172

My soil is spent and depleted my human toil,
All the harvests dwindled, all produce ended.
The days script no more any orderly rule,
Only a vagrant whim all norm does upend.

I am a lone listless cloud goaded by winds,
Fleeing breathless across the azure sky,
The horizon’s haven line my heart seeks
For a mysterious end I know not why!

Oh what quandary is upon my grey brow
My hours and years now fruitless seem,
These wastelands I must outlive somehow
Or why visits occultly that golden dream?

O Spectator Divine, O Immanence, O Indweller,
From these confounding chains do us deliver!