His pidgeon poo

He did not know it, last thing he would steal
Would deliver him to where death was real
Two bottles cough medicine were lifted
Seemed to him that they should have been gifted

How was a freshman supposed to stay high
When he was so far from Mom`s apple pie
Had left his morals at home in clear skies
That date he was neither older nor wise

Though he did not live in Oklahoma
He had been Blessed, forty-two day coma
Woke up weighing only seventy pounds
Family kept praying, new life is found

Doctors were puzzled as they did not know
Credit was given, Jesus` "Little Rose"
The smell of roses was left in the nose
Of family that loved our God the most

Another miracle credited to
St. Therese; his number is forty-two.

Author notes

Truth be told; I had just written another poem, "Thou
shalt not steal", a sonnet and then I clicked onto your contest. I saw the picture of an angel releasing a dove and was inspired to change the title and add four lines. Lo and behold; I submit "His pidgeon poo".
I pray that my title does not break rule #1, as I
find it to be universal in scope.