Pitiful Ghost

Sonnet — Daily Poetry for The Master of Works #30

What use to Thee am I as a lifeless ghost
Shorn of vitals, stripped of senses five,
Of conscious mind and thought bereft,
Unable to serve Thee tangibly and alive?

What use to rue like a Hamletian ghost
Of immoral couches and injustices done,
Is not late justice an aid most least,
Like wreath to a body with soul long gone?

What use to Thee am I as a hanger by,
Like a cold bright god to frame a scene
Who appears to gladden the common eye
When all toil is expended and the victory won?

Oh, let me not mar the splendour of Thy chamber
As a pitiful ghost struggling to secrete a ghostly tear!