Sonnet — Daily Poetry to The Master of Works #33
A little remains of the little there was,
Of the prevailing ruin the useable sliver
Is now demolished for Thy wasting whims
And yet I must to old mores adhere?
Like a wayward wave engulfs the shore
Turning our lives its hunger’s food,
So is Thy will prowling this simple air
Relishing in our despair and ungood.
For Thine is the sceptre to flagrantly flaunt
And our knees only given to buckle and serve,
If such is the end deemed at the start
For what grand issue must we labouring prove?
Oh gloat, gloat in Thy white castle unassailable,
My last tear shall haunt the doors of Thy portal.