Spill

Drifting, always drifting for reward the spilling fate around me covets, hoards and that which God abounds in me, His ford is dissipated faith, as if some chord of emptiness surrounds, and then affords no entry to His being, no accord that asks for thy whole feeling, thy explored. This stifling, scene congealing, bores as bored with trust's return of healing ~ symbol's chore is undercurrent, stealing, always moored to honoring of self ~ while God, implored becomes the extra mention, as to scored. Oh God, but spill me not, for this consort I ask in prayer, as now, for all times floored ~ Then, for my love, I ask his freedom's sword be part of mine in Thee, forever forward!