I am a weary traveller,
washing my hands of myself as I fall down at his door,
carrying every wound that I once hoped someone else would hold,
begging for the breakthrough of flaming valleys.
I am too weak to tell him that I do not want to be fixed when he finds me,
he doesn’t try to tell me that I am safe from my own soul and all the terrible, dreadful things it could do,
because he is a servant of my best friend’s father,
and he can never tell a lie.
I want it, but I cannot accept it.
He takes my tears and let’s them trickle back into my eyes,
but they never stay in place.
I take to the seas after sundown,
never going down with the ship,
because he has the audacity to save me, each time I try to drown.
A young man on the hill,
holding the child of a tree in his humble hand.
He guides me back to shore,
pulling me from the wreckage, when he must,
much too good to me,
and never asking anything in return.
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