Thy Passion

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Thy Passion

Sonnet — An Invocation to the Master #324

Oh here is but crude prose of labouring limbs,
In pouring perspiration on life’s rushing page
Our stories in faint illegible script crawls,
A wasted testament of life’s wayward urge.

The heart’s lyre by Thy hands unplayed remains,
A vestige forgotten in whirls of the world,
For wither music in melee of quills and swords,
By mind’s busy pomp heart’s whisper is drowned.

Hast Thou lost the thrill of Thy amorous ways
When our souls were seized for Thy love’s hunger,
Or are we inadequate to glut Thy appetites,
Oh we but have a meagre mortality to offer!

Adore me then, bring a spectacle to Thy passion,
Or they’ll say of Thee, “Oh, what Sun blazes a brief human season?!”