By Chance Poem by Timothy john Green

mopping up feathers
its a task for the few
getting leathered
akin to the modern view

tasked with a hunt
a job i dont like
taking a shunt
forced by that spike

oh how to love thee
shall i tend to thee?
pleasures you bring
heartfelt but in pain
chastened by distain

Far cry from the reality
sensing nothing from you
light a torch in the dark
it doesn't understand
The darkness shrieks
casting a care upon the land
our Jesus has a plan

a life running by
sand through the hand