In spring, my bedroom sprung a gushing leak,
that soaked, before I knew of it, my bed,
discoloring the ceiling to a bleak
and moldy, peeling menace overhead.
And I who look for meaning everywhere,
look for significance in even leaking,
for we’re surrounded though we’re unaware
by meaning we may find if we are seeking.
But what this leak could mean is still unclear,
though I relate it to my ailing soul,
since into me has leaked a doubt and fear
like now the rainfall gushes through a hole.
The landlord now will come to fix the roof.
O, Lord, repair my faith that needs no proof.


Mario A. Pita

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