Cauldron

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Cauldron

Sonnet — An Invocation to The Master #181

How quaint are these soul roads we traverse
Through valley of ruin and woods of pain,
The barren desolate friendless deserts
And sands numerous like our hopes fallen.

What compass can bear true direction
Here where no earthly pole or star is?
A strange geography is spirit’s terrain,
A soul alone in an empire of silence.

I grow mute like a clod or a careless god,
A million cares are mine and also none,
In me lives the timeless and the timed,
Am an emigré from both earth and heaven.

This twilight my home, I its resident daemon,
My being now turns Thy alchemy’s cauldron.