Here, I stand against the wind,
With a crown of pulp and a quill in hand,
Clinging to these notions I've yet to brand
Upon my feeble skin;
These inspirations, most stinging a bit,
Poking and prodding, inoculating the sac
With a course and a map and a cache of the past
And a pinch of grit intermixed;
Cavities swollen in this heart, in this home,
Shouldering these walls of the loneness I hold close,
As I tumble down the stairwell, vengeful ego seeking cove,
To where forgiveness and remembrance intersect;
O Lord, I'm ill-equipped for this trek,
Must I bear this cross? Must I bridge this path?
Shan't You transform this quill into a staff?
For the beast, he's well adapted,
These uncharted waters, rapid,
May I at least take this barque for a lap?
O what I'd give for a mere cautionary slap,
Be still, my soul, and you shan't quake upon the rack.

© JLaine