Frontier

Poem — Daily Poetry for The Master of Works #83

A frontier is every hour and the moments wastelands endless,
A new continent is each day teeming with unknown perils.

The mind is a fugitive crouching behind a bush of thorny fears,
The heart recollects the long journey through fruitless years.

As a whim of winds props an outlined shape in mist to dangle,
So dwell I in this human sphere caught in the knot of a soul-spell.

Vast this niche of twilight as if a dew could swallow an ocean whole,
Is this how the soul enfolds all worlds in its intangible self sole?

Is it thus, the long night preluding the much-famed flaming dawns,
Is this the pregnant night wombing in its folds our grand forever-morns?

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