(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?