In the valley of darkness, I shall not want
Though a hole resides where the heartbeat should be
The vessels still do their work
My lungs decay, black and smoked out
And my organs dry up from strong rums
And the things I hold dear become a desert storm
But I shall not ask for the help of dying trees
Whose fruit, though ripe, would leave me with less leaves
Or perhaps with more than I could bear
No, I stand on the mountains
The mountains we lived in, where the church sits upon the hill
I stand on the mountains and call for him
I call for him
and I know - without science or senses -
That he is near
Feb 19, 2020
Feb 19, 2020 at 2:18 PM UTC