Pockets
I hope that God won’t turn His back
I hope the Lord leaves just a crack
Where I may slip within His heart
To beg him for a silver cart.
Please…no gilded chariot of old
With creaky wheels of flaking gold
That split and peel along the way
Then hurriedly fly, to run astray.
Grant to me please mithril spokes
So rancid air’s not trapped nor choked
By thoughtless words of those whose trade
Is flipping hearts to darkened spades.
I beseech and beg for happy thoughts
To share with others who’re distraught
A boutonnière to better cope
A broach for pockets. filled with hope.
Copyright © Michelle Mac Donald | Year Posted 2012
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