Poetry

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My days are a fleeting runner,
They flee away and seem no good;
Like an illegal foreigner,
Not entering the way he should.

They pass away like skiffs of reed,
An eagle swooping on a prey;
A got-away that does succeed,
To elude police on that day.

I have forgotten my complaint,
And be removing my sad face;
To be of good cheer as a saint,
From the heaviness of disgrace.

I am afraid of suffering,
That causes all of my sorrow;
Making my thoughts bewildering,
To have a better tomorrow.

I feel as though God may condemn,
That my labor may be in vain;
Being surrounded by mayhem,
Causing all violence and pain.

I wash myself with fallen snow,
The cleansing of my hands with lye;
Yet into the pit, I must go,
But not abhor God asking why.

He is not a man as I am,
Facing Him in judgment to speak;
For the Lord is true not a sham,
It is the Almighty I seek.

There’s no arbiter in between,
Who might proceed to lay His hand;
There is no jury to be seen,
Only His justice where I stand.

Copyright © 2024 Richard Newton Sherrer

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