I ask to learn how to stand still.
My question is but one of a multitude.

I fear for my death—it is an obsidian wall.
If I walk through its door, I may stumble.
As I fall, my arms will be broken.
The weight of my sorrow will shatter my hands.

Can I cast my lot among friends?
I am sad—alone in a crowd again.
The day that I faced this reality, I cringed.
I cannot find the middle path.

The narrow road appears beneath my feet.
Will I stumble again?

I pray for a beam of light to guide me.
I desire to run on a path to freedom.

W. Wayne B.

© 2012 W. Wayne B.