Silt Spittle Poem by John Sensele

Losing battles
Forcing God's hands
To bless mundane mantles
Swamped in bruised bands.

Every milestone
God charts
Whether they pour glory or scorn
Waste of time to cast drivel darts.

Dreaming, speculating too cheap
Bending God's plan an impossible task
Only disappointment and frustration to reap
No matter what questions they ask.

God owns tomorrow
Human will matters little
If they should avert sorrow
In a plethora of silt spittle.