Murmurs of Aspiration — 5

Aspirant: Divine irony my Beloved Lord
To crown me king over empires that matter not
And insist tyrant like to deny what I seek.

Thou dost mine my night with daggers of light
And in this dubious bosom of night, plant embers torn from Thee.

Aspirant: Stung with a thousand ills, soiled by vanities numberless
Garbed with gaudy perversions and sickly gluttony was I.
Yet thou comest on the whites of blinding light
A rushing blaze of many forms.

Sri Krishna: Heavenward my beloved soul, come now.

Aspirant: Speech falls mute, shy of looking at glory too profound for words
My Beloved Lord…