Sonnet V

There was a time I flew like rain, through storms,
And winds, and through the black of lightning, hot
As anything that chaos ever forms
Or ever forged in crucibles of naught
Ere known. Who would invent the bursting cloud?
And who would boil the vanished spring on fire
To parch the fasting members of the crowd,
Instilled with morbid armfuls of desire,
Now torn, now moved, as I am, from my love?
O autocrat, whoever you may be,
Take my fire to your citadel above,
Congeal, hasten hither and disquiet me!
I, a box of epitaphs upon a shelf,
Here plead to you to seize me from myself.