Sitting in Michael's Lap
The path of Life has borne a deviant tread
Without complaint, from these, my weary feet;
For often have I wandered, sorely lost,
Though pride would not allow relent. The cost
Was paid in blood and tears, and yet, retreat
Poured poison in a heart already dead.
Oh jagged road, these many scars I bear
As testament to your uneven grain
Could each relay a tale of triumph earned,
Or, alternately, searing shame is burned
Into a painted memory of pain.
Of bitter vanity, this cloak I wear
To hide the self, beneath a careful shade
Of arrogance, a wall of seamless steel
That baffles e'en the most insistent eyes.
Reclusive soul begins to realize
The price it pays for learning not to feel:
By refuge walls a prisoner is made.
The road ahead is bleak; the broken stone
Reflects the heart in mocking parody.
The body begs surcease from curse'd quest,
But presses on – and hope avails no rest
To one whose eyes, though opened, cannot see
How, in the teeming throng, she stands alone.
You cannot choose the way of your death, but the path you choose will determine its own end.