Streams of Comfort

There’s a story here.
Written in harsh words
And scratched out lines.
My pencil breaks writing
About the moments
I let myself down.
Turn the page
Turn the page
Faster
I begged.
No response.
I wasn’t born impatient
Was I?
Try as I might
I couldn’t lift a grain of dust
My soul felt that weak.
I wanted a fantasy
Where I could turn to any page
And read the ending
Before I start.
Even when I like things
I still look forward to
Watching them end.
Perhaps I don’t think they’ll stay.
I wasn’t born this way
The pressure and pain
Of living this life
Made me want to rush.
Yet, I am not the author.
I can turn the pages
But I don’t write the words.
The ending has been written.
Praise God
The One who holds the pen
And my fragile soul
To the book of life.
Alice R, 8/14/24