Broken Mould

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Broken Mould

Poem — An Invocation to The Master #196

A solemn assembly gathered by being’s doors
At the day’s summary of an empty dusk,
Arrayed were the forms of five score ghosts 
Of suns grieving over their fruitless task.

Their voices surged in a lamenting chorus
“O this adamant hemisphere of grey
Making futile our persistent radiant rounds
To bake the moulds of this dolorous clay.

How many kindred suns must be spent
Upon one mortal type by fates marked,
What waters may nourish a root unblest 
Mired in the deepest night unalloyed.

Dispatch us not to this futile curve
For dullard brows on an ignorant earth!”
So the petition on me did move
To cancel the lease of my breath.

And the Voice made answer, “Not sun or moon
Or the undying stars, nor even far-seeing fates,
Know My purpose from the dim abyss begun 
To cast upon earth a new heaven’s impress.

My will lies masked in this broken mould,
The suns I spend to pry that nugget of gold.”