I feel I’ve been past due,
Milk carton expiration.
How long do I have to keep on waiting?
I planted with blood, sweat, and tears,
Almost on empty.
I need an oil change for my gears,
Can’t get to Jiffy.
But I’m digging deep within me.
In well doing I refuse to get weary.
Because that’s the key to this thing clearly.
I’m not past due,
What a misstatement.
I’m closer than I think,
What a misplacement.
I see a cloud forming above my fields,
Let it rain and bring the increase it yields.
It’s my season.
My harvest is wrapped up in my believing.
What are your thoughts on this week’s Poetic Flow?