(God’s Sonnet by Timothy J. Verret; it’s how I cope. God has always been forthcoming with me about “balancing His Scales,” which I took to mean, “give ’em hope, Timothy, but don’t let ’em get ‘too comfy.'”
You’re pumped for a speedy delivery.
You opened deep veins to have it your way.
You’re one who takes and makes all shivery.
You wish you were a rescuer, not prey.
These hours, I can be found directionless.
Right, left, down, up, forward, backward; ADRIFT.
I got one heart, one soul, affectionless.
I’m the one of 4 who SCREAMS in makeshift.
“But he who endures to the end is saved.”
Matthew Twenty-4: Thirteen – “Run that Race!”
Don’t crawl or dawdle like red ghosts depraved.
Stand up, dear trees! Your branches? Just in case.
So, this speedy delivery won’t come
until you bleed a little, bear humdrum.
