My Ember

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My Ember

Sonnet — Daily Poetry for The Master of Works #105

Pale is the dawn, pale the trudging hours,
Sapless like a mindless ritual’s empty gestures,
All motions keep to some hollow rhythm
Like a poor poet’s most uneven rhyme.

I labour to climb the will’s steep stairs
To enter the sanctum of Thy presence,
My priest lips manage only a dull hymn,
Barely rises even a single limb of flame!

Strange is the manner of Thy grace
That all ardour of mine devotion robs,
Flings my being in a living abysm
And gazes silently my flailing form!

Of all Thy priests I am shaped the least,
Yet my ember aspires to vicinity of Thy feet.