Bucolic Psalm For A Broken Start
Oh dear bowl of elastic fluid,
Complaining about spoon,
Wanting hands be stretch;
To eating henceforth
Cum natural bids,
Pleasure seeks...
I have no hand in tears of saint,
Who knew not of your fearless complaint...
Let alone could guess the need,
For worries cum anxiety, choices mislead
To settle out of fears that bleed...
Help me, I am disturbed
Though not lonely perturbed,
For I have you always Lord.
Let me not be too forward...
As I wander in confusing accord¡
With pleasure seeker not curbed.
Before prompter makes me look stupid,
While wandering around HOW SOON...
Of when this confused sketch
Will give direction far north,
To what south outbids...
Of reckless weeks.
I have no plan for news to hear,
How sweet people rejoice for such tier,
By maturity nor age, be promoted
Except of value and readiness, be devoted...
With or without boost, be denoted.
Help me, my wandering soul
Carefully confused of expectancy,
What ought be glad for, if whole
But a mere prank to daring potency
To drag assurance off doubtful bowl
Not glad of spoon's stake but hands decency.
Here we are,
Over there, You watch
Us to dare...
Silent this or botch,
To redeem scar
Of a wounded scotch.
How so broken a start!
Could damage plans ahead...
Or drift living yet be known apart,
Turning a white mind into heart-like-red
Just to stay put what Your will impart
Rather than choose to be smart instead.
How joyfully sad is this
Mouth can't speak of, a news
Or gladly take care of, to abuse,
What mama can't ease.
O SU MI O!
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