By Delbert H. Rhodes
Trying “sometimes” stares strangely at him; wanting cares little for his sake, forsaking him begrudgingly. Seemingly: everything denies and rejects him.
Time is no friend: it selfishly flirts with the heavens, and is (too) far away. Hurt clutches him: embracing his brittle embryonic tears.
Yes he cries, yes, he feels.
Oh, to soothe the wrinkle in his heart; perhaps (then) he would know release; maybe then he could find peace.
Looking to the skies: “The Lord is thy Sheperd!”
What is to become of him?
Copyright 2012 Delbert H. Rhodes