(A [not God] sonnet by Timothy J. Verret, about a desperate prayer and the devastation of said prayer denied)

I prayed to you and you didn’t come through.

I put my trust in you, and you failed me.

Do you care so little for my black flu?

For my “sick” spirit of wept, hope-filled plea?

I wish I was positive, but I suck.

I wish I believed; help my unbelief.

I wish I had some hope, but I’m muck-stuck.

I don’t know about you, but I’ll be brief:

I’m all the sad all the time all the day.

I’m all the suffer of the children’s cries.

I’m all the head in lock (vice, grip); “Eye” say,

“I’m gone. I’m done. I’m finished.” No more lies.

Don’t get too close or you will surely die.

I bring down the best of them; don’t ask why?

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