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Waking (A Poor Man's Sonnet)

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To be what we are is matter of labour, 

There is nothing more wished on Earth than 

The flowering of human souls by the creator 

Some say we are sleeping - others simply run, 

She who, the lone hours knows, a direction 

Time’s mere motion cannot ken to fathom 

Nor the fury’s pace of great elections, 

Ever trampled, ever scourged, ever sought - 

The blossom of a heart unknown’s power: 

Hides all, holds all, knows all;                                          

                              yet bought, rent, sold. 

The divine within the chest begins to sour 

Make haste now, sow the soul, prepare the flower, 

What is, must be; pray not to the penny nor the hour. 

2 Comments Add a Comment?



Posted on Sept. 16, 2021, 1:10 p.m.

Incredible work, Christie. That's beautiful & powerful.


Christie Murphy

Posted on Sept. 25, 2021, 8:56 p.m.

Thank you James.

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