Listen well, my sweet, for these words, you wrote; of your, personna, countenance, and power,
Are, but, for you, to swallow, like,
the medicine they are.
Healing, will quickly come,
with falcon speed, and a cheetah's gait,
It's never, ever, too late.
Your desperations, are just like ours,
for we're all, really the same,
and it matters not, that: deseve,
isn't figured into the game.
But then, a bed of roses, surely has it's thorns,
but you, my dear, awesome lady,
His, radiance, adorns.
So take your troubles, from now on,
be sure to take the kids, and a magic marker, too.
Then write them on the helium, filled balloons,
that you buy, from, the ballon man, I, just sent, you, to.
Then when the troubles, are on the ballons, count three, and let them go.
And in your heart, of beautiful hearts, just rest, and,
That he'll read, each and every one.
Then angels he'll dispatch.
Miracles, will be done.
He'll smile, and, as he fixes them,
one by one. ------ Art