Can plague a restless norm,
From the day the child was born.
And familiar minds
Have wasted repetitions signs.
As a drunken monk
Normality is disturbed
When encountering grace for the first time:
A world messed up then given back to God.
If only for a moment
Wasting becomes waiting on Him,
Waiting for His realness
And for this child to catch up,
Then wasting is still comfort
And not a waste at all.