Last Temple

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Last Temple

Sonnet — Daily Poetry for The Master of Works #64

Courtesy Dall-E

By weary limbs to the temple I trudge,
A monument lone in the silent twilight
Veering at the cliff of being’s edge,
An echo of old glory of the faded past.

A priest-will gathers from nearby heart
A cupped palm of devotion’s waters
To cleanse the sanctum of earth-dust
Gathered by slow passage of the hours.

A hymn sounds in broken murmurs
Eluding the stifling hands of time,
Offered like the last tattered rose
Or a broken song sans all rhyme.

Behold then the last temple in this twilight,
In sanctum is Thy name and I its worshiping priest.