Uncounted Futures
Published on November 15, 2023
Uncounted Futures
Sonnet — Daily Poetry for The Master of Works #80
What manner of ardour is this of Thine
That binds and keeps me a prisoner
In sapless spaces with savour none,
Like a body for barter in coming future.
What manner of ardour is this of Thine
Drawing moods from the void most bare,
Sans flux of events, sans feeling’s motion,
Like a bog for the living, a sluggish snare.
What manner of ardour is this of Thine
That wills my every impulse to disappear,
Am left like a poem feverishly begun
And abandoned ’cause the plot was poor.
O Beloved, from Thy uncounted futures that can be
Make as real just one where I am adored by Thee.