Sometimes, when the ache of the world
conspires with my own, and twines with terrible tedium,
my faith is stomped into a mudhole and kicked dry
and left for dead.
I lay, limp and without vigor,
dull and without sparkle
and I watch the forest denizens draw near hopefully,
wanting to drink of clear and glittery waters sweet and cold
But something smells off…me…fetid wounds and sores clotted and festered
smelling of fever and sorrow…and death?
So they slide away as if to not be seen, nor ever to have known
this well once so lively that is struggling and ambushed by thieves.
But I see them go, having crossed the road first
to avoid being sullied by the silly and sick well
that is failing to provide accustomed sustenance.
And I wish for just a drop…of water from another well?
My Samaritan? Are you out there? Can you follow your nose,
endure the stench of sweat and sorrow and despair?
Can you take me to That Inn, and pour oil in,
Just a kind word, when the well runs dry…