All The Ransom
Sonnet — Poetry for The Master of Works #32
What perennial fruit is in ephemeral time
That in bitterness ever ripe always is,
How richly endowed by this sordid clime
That it the seedly cycle easily forfeits!
Who or what is this rising so full-born
Like a power typal from ancient waters
Or a wraith that a cold will did summon
As perfect in intent and deliberate ills.
For author there is no other of all here
But Thee and hence Thou must know
Who or what plots our black despair,
A vengeful god or some demon below.
But what of all the ransom in sweat and tears
That I have brought Thee over these wretched years?