It feels like spitting on a roaring fire,
or sweeping the ocean floor,
or wandering through a maze of mirrors,
but finding no open door.
The dread of what the call may bring,
and fear of what’s to come,
hoping you’re almost at the end,
but you’ve only just begun.
Exhausted but I can’t sleep,
and awake it’s hard to move,
what good is searching for answers,
if it only leaves you bruised ?
Resigning to live defective,
with wounds that cannot heal,
no longer fearing the thief,
there’s nothing left to steal.
Each day a little dimmer,
each night the slowing path,
but please, I beg, don’t pray for me,
I’ve got plenty of his wrath.