A thousand pinpricks are certain to kill,
Just as certain as a bullet to the head,
Each day mounts with frustration,
Passion slowly curls up to die,
Lost in the mass of failures,
Notched up in the daily diary account.
Joy’s slow death has it’s own smell,
The putrid stench of contempt’s gaze,
That stares from it’s lofty throne,
I am lost in what cannot be changed,
Unless something changes in me,
Broken down, deserted for green fields,
That yield a thousand times more.
But Joy’s heart was opened wide,
To begin to restore my broken heart,
What went wrong will be set right,
As hearts combine in loving embrace,
Celebrating the meagre gifts offered,
From which something beautiful unfolds,
Promises from God are always kept,
Setting things right in Creation’s economy.