My beloved is the best . . . but he is asleep as I bemoan my sorry lot.
He holds me close . . . until I react to some scent on his manly body.
It should have a wonderful effect . . . but it does not anymore, sadly.
Such are the ravages of severe illness . . . the kind that makes everything hay-wired.
If I could explain it to you . . . then it would be from understanding myself,
And I cannot dear friend . . . so woe are my words, this night, once again.
But not forever, all night, or after a little while . . .
For He speaks into my heart song . . .
And makes all kinda nice.
My Jesus understands for he hung on a wooden cross . . .
With nails in his hands and feet, a spear thrust in his side.
I could never endure imagine that kind of pain, even if my head banged all night . . .
Let’s just say my Lord knows suffering so His tears comfort me alright.
Even if this Doc or that hath not have the medication right for me . . .
My beloved says healing will still come and my own fasting indicates so.
I shall do what I gotta do to manage this chaos . . . even if I never leave the table by the window at the café of the health food store
Because I can’t think straight and seizures are pushing up from within: unsafe to make my way home until I stabilize.
“Cmon my Jesus, drive me home
It’s dark already and you are all that I have tonight.”
And so He did when He was all I had.