Ever wonder if everything as we know it is divisible by three--
the father, son and holy ghost?
Lying awake you ponder this as your father groans in pain as
the cancer chariot races down his bloodstream.
A bold prayer is a selfish act you tell yourself to keep from
crying as you murmur wistful pleas into the air,
While the draft from your open window shreds them to incoherent
pieces before you finish calling [heaven] collect.
Service charges are expensive and phone lines are usually busy,
but you figure you can wait awhile since life support is covered.
Maybe since the ‘divine plan’ is still a rough draft, there might yet
be room for revision but deep down you’re struggling,
To accept the fact that you're not qualified to write that article,
and even though it involves us all, the editor doesn’t want our input.
Earnest words fall on deaf ears, but did you really expect anything different,
at least he had the decency to allow the weather to express what you’re feeling.
God--
just tell me why
[You let my father die]
Note: Feel free to comment, my father is alive and well, this was written from a creative standpoint only.
