Sonnet — An Invocation to The Master #84
What heavy taint is upon the days,
A sneering eye of disdainful glare
Weighs the hours by a scale base,
And marks my deeds a rank failure.
Where gone the pen of thought
That once inked fine idea-seeds,
By bold initiative action caught
And marched forward to end goals?
A mist of despair now clings here
Like an adamant ghost unfearing,
It heeds not will or pleading despair,
Stands with banner of gloom hanging.
Grant me reprieve from these spells,
Fashion in me Thy integral emergence.