spent
in worry, concerned
with age
with the endless task
of filling days,
rearranging
the chairs
and tables, the lamps
of your life.
setting the mood with
movies and books,
food
and love, or close
to love.
counting pennies
long into the night.
you manipulate the blinds,
the curtains,
swiping cobwebs
from the corners,
giving your world
more reason,
more light.
you've beaten the rugs clean,
you've put your house
in order.
it's exhausting, as you at
last sit alone, still
some shade of blue,
and wonder
is there anything
unattended to,
have i left anything for
God to do?
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