Poets

‘Z’ is last - but not in this poem! Letters take thought and patience to grow 'em. ‘A’ seems reserved for its special space,

I cannot serve two masters. I serve, but only one, for if I love some sinfulness, I hate God's only Son. Could I walk in His sandals? Do I really understand? Of what would it encompass? Of what would it demand?

There was a barn once painted red which stood on grandpa's old homestead – and built so very long ago, a sorry sight - I told him so.