Too Human

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Too Human

Sonnet — Daily Poetry for The Master of Works #63

Courtesy Lexica.art

Oh am not lettered in courtesies of the soul,
Nor clothed in fineries of becomings true,
Am barely a mind sheathed over the animal
That for joy and grief sheds a howl to you.

Oh but the heart is stewed in passions red
Born of hungers inflamed by muddied waters
Of life that flows upon this inconscient bed
That is seed and soil of all dubious fruits.

Am goaded by the storm and wayward ill,
Bandits who steal the impoverished purse
Of normalcy and the upward gazing will
Leaving my being indebted to penuries.

Oh garb my soul in a raiment of the sun,
Am tired of these parts all too human.