An existential waiting for Godot,
when aggravated, drinking much Bordeaux,
could even bring Thoreau dismay and woe,
to mutilate one’s ear like poor van Gogh.
When we despair, impatience flaring, though,
in spite of claims of piety, we show
our unbelief about the debt we owe,
a faith that’s shallow, feeble, even faux.
Oh Lord, come to me now and do not go!
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