(God’s Sonnet by Timothy J. Verret; “it’s how I cope to hope in another day in Paradise, making the Way for the Lord of the Lost”)
You are late at the gate when time to feast.
You’ve been wandering ’bout the bloody lands.
Trips like these are for the malicious beast,
the prowler of sorrows, the sausaged hands.
Many hours I spend in the lost, not found;
in the pain, not peace; one chaotic moon.
When I lie down, I’m meat for the greed hound.
I’ve passed away with love amid the ruin.
“My Hour has not come yet, but it is near.”
Prepare the Way for the Lord of the Lost.
Not late like the White Rabbit. In the clear
is our Lord. None can calculate that cost.
We think to run here and there, never bored.
Baby steps or else lost without the Lord.