Narrative. A poem.

The gracious crucible of light
that spawned my shambling steps,
dangling that golden carrot
through a narrative
ill met.

The owl glides over darkening fields,
I’m the mouse skirting its kill zone.
I duck and weave, just out of reach,
running and crawling
prone.

The view up there, it must be good,
a riot of jocularity.
But I don’t share that shade of blue,
while navigating
uncertainty.

So, I will stumble blindly through
the midnight of my storied tome,
relating a narrative so familiar
until You decide to call me
home.

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