In the thorny seat of discomfort.
I’ve made my sitting.
Not that I so please.
Times tic has drawn my feet into this thick.
A formality, some may say.
A passage, the rite of it.
That it being my turn, her meal I have to gulp.
Her lax, I have to render a wait.
Let the tides of time attend my call.
And her speed observe my request.
That at my assailants surprise.
I shall leave this penury for pleasure.
Though I yet remain.
My self I avail to his snare.
That at the hour’s due.
My joy, in screams, shall show His PRAISE.
O. M. B-2017