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.