Limp

I don’t want to write a poem today,

Be all poetically bitchy

About feeling overwhelmed,

What with one thing after another,

Feeling the weight of piled up things.

And me turning into my old man,

Asking why can’t anything ever go right?

Is it because the sins of the father

Are passed down to the son?

Am I, as the end of the spiral,

No progeny to pass my sins down,  

The price paid for that grace?

Is this one of the mysterious ways

I’m to take comfort in?

Where do I find the Angel in some dark way

That I might wrestle with,

Hold on until He blesses me?

Or did I miss it

And I am just left

To limp along?