It's the night after in sleepy Valley, everything is quite.
No nocturnal's scampering, no bird riots
Only crickets do I hear, or is it ringing in my ears?
Forty past midnight: thinking of failure;
The paradox: joy for fear;
That's what leads me on.
It isn't always clear, do I fool myself?
But still you lead me on...
Was I a failure: I saw laughter, without a tear.
Softly, softly, I must tread:
Keeping you near.
A sheep, not a goat.
Forgive me once, Forgive me twice, seventy times seven.
I am only flesh and blood, you rule from heaven.
Don't rebuke me in your hot displeasure, give me another try...
My joy is to to worship you, without you, I should die.
Hold my hand as I stumble, carry me through. .
Your the Father to the son, my life is held by you.
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Author:
Valiantstar (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: December 25th, 2024 09:01
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 15
- Users favorite of this poem: Cheeky Missy
Offline)
Comments2
A poem for the season that reaches out and sings
Interesting you say that. I am not a writer, and definitely not a musician. I have this desire to build a harp.
Haven't seen you play or heard you sing but a writer of poems I know you are
Erm, so I shall forgive you 70 x7 = 490 times. But 491 times will be too much. Ooh!
Whats my score?
Your score is 491 - lol. So I'm keeping a record of them, am I?!
Did you account for inflation?
Make that 492 then! lol.
Are you a politician?
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