Leader, Lover, Lord

Leader, Lover, Lord.

I hold a rusty sword.

Battered pages of all your word.

Effective salvation, grace in my hand.

I am drowning yet parched, in this wasted land.

Life-days shifting away like useless sand.

I read of wonder, talk of joy.

Pleasures, things a demonic ploy.

Passing loyalty to the precepts which restore joy.

Where to find you? Hear your truth?

If you love me? Why do they elude?

Lest I despair so soon?

My race unfinished, the prize unclaimed.

Untortured as Paul, but my heart feels maimed.

Perhaps for battle, I’m untrained.

Gird me in strength.

Raise my sword.

Guard me behind.

Lead me before.

Leader, Lover, Lord.

Dying Things

Fallen

Foliage fingerprints.

Prism mums,

Oft sunlight glints.

And dying things.

 

Flow’rs huddle low,

‘Neathe  coming cold.

Day dies young

With setting sun.

And dying things.

 

Bug’s knees creak,

Old, aging, weak.

Bedtime’s early,

Heads soft and curly.

Just sleepy things…