ten

Do i wait for the hand to touch me, or am i steps down the road. Still with journey and forward gazing? Striving against and onward pacing? Or do i sit in stream of vine and weed. Or worse yet do I run in fear of the lightning I cannot see. The ground I ask to embrace me, let me follow the servant fallen. So perhaps hear the words of terror, and rob me of this strength i lack. So would i look upon he, he that in my folly i squander. Anguish bear i through the tumult, not through patience but through weakness, if i were to feel the break of those words upon my neck. How could i bring the living, how could i bear the light? Why do i suffer illness with all this feast in sight? i would hold still and silent witness to this act of gentle might. Please tell these ears that i would still and be so silent. Please tell me i would break in fright.