I dream in 40-point, italic font

of all I long to give to You—

the One who loves me most.

I type my aims into reality—

or so I try, but everything

is paper jams and out-of-inks—

a mangled, tear-smudged page of faint,

illegible, ugly-colored words—

not the marvel You deserve.

My fingers hesitate to type again,

broken dreams on broken keys

and nothing nice to give.

Yet there You are, dear Word from God, still waiting—

not for grand occasions, glorious deeds,

or eloquence —but for me.