I don't know what it means; I just don't know.
Did I do something wrong, some kind of sin?
I'll tell you what I can; I'll take it slow.
Although I'm just not sure where to begin.
You know, He came and spoke to me each night
in Perfect Glory, stood there with His Son
above the floor in robes of brilliant white,
for twenty years or maybe twenty-one.
But not last night. His presence didn't shine.
His voice was mute; His Son was absent too.
I'm left without the water or the wine.
I haven't even got a fucking clue!
Oh shit, do you suppose He might have heard?
Or should I raise my fist and flip the bird?
This entry was posted on Friday, January 17th, 2020 at 4:11 pm and is filed under Sonnets. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.
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