Sometime in the a.m.:
The feeler stays awake, any way she can, through the fog of wine, through the pulse of music, through the rushing of time no hand will stop.
I did not choose to be here, not now, not ever. Yet, continually, it seems, you refuse to tell me why I am.
“I am alive!” people exult every day, but it takes more than what is in me to simply state it for myself.
Yet alive – even if just technically – I am. Grace has kept me from finding the means to willingly change this.
And so the feeler continues, through this night and through as many in which time does not play its hand.
Purpose, come to meet me.
Will, come to save me.
Truth, tread down before me the path to follow.
Time, time, I will stay.