Collusions
Sonnet — An Invocation to the Master #341
Published on April 28, 2022
Collusions
Sonnet — An Invocation to the Master #341
Wither this procession of mourning hours
Like failed troops from odds most ungodly,
With scattered arms and scarred limbs
Returning to infamy and scorning sympathy.
Am I maimed in some deep hidden marrow
Where reaches not the cure of will resolute,
For all thought-seeds I diligently sow
Are unyielding like sparse rain in a desert.
A mist unwholesome clogs every gate,
The air reeks with futility and despair,
A siege unhuman this, bleaker than fate,
A deluge for all hope to flounder.
For all the collusions that keep me in their ambit,
I hold Thee a colluder and hence complicit.