Feet firmly planted, heels dug in,
mud grabbing at my body,
wishing to swallow me whole,
wanting to consume my last breath.
Metaphor.
I do not desire death, but only freedom.
You have asked me do something that I am unwilling.
And in all cases, stubbornness is suicide.
So there really is no choice- death by my hands or by Yours.
Illusion.
Yet You are a gentle giant,
and with tender hands You pluck me from the mire.
You set me anew on solid ground,
the old soil bearing the weight of my soul.
Fairy Tales.
Standing, dried clay clinging to my flesh,
shoulders slumped in defeat, arms dangling at my sides,
my gaze is fixed ahead, and just slightly above.
It is there where He, my Prince, calls to me.
Lullabies.
Like a rag doll, no will of my own,
a gentle push and I submit myself unto You,
falling softly, quietly, effortlessly
into the abyss.
Pillow dreams.
