Christie Murphy

Waking (A Poor Man's Sonnet)

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.