Late night prayers go unanswered.
I, like Jonah under the tree,
Wait for God’s voice to come to me.
All that’s left is silence, awkward
As the with’ring sun in an unknown land.
Darkness begets darkness before dawn;
The crickets chirp as heat’s pawn.
The Sandman, short sold, offers no sand
To grace my eyes and quell my heart.
But the silence of undone deed
And unturned rock begin to bleed
My soul that is searching without art.
The clock ticks, and the hours chime—
Sleepless, mental gears turn in time.
Photo courtesy of Lawrence OP:
https://www.flickr.com/photos/paullew
License information:
https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.0/
The Grass is Always Greener 