And That was it...  
an ever growing chain of chances
Each shrunken sick in manners
down to the pitiful  size of mud dancing bugs
Finally foiled and boiled alive
in blood soaked tribal chants
to nothing but some cruel joke  
In which I will craft myself some hazardous home
But with You
Your handsome and enchanting charm
Always and forever squirming unpleasantly  
Framing My holy and collapsible sense of purpose
Leading me to be caught in those crosswinds
And with not one pathway left
To lead to another
Yes
That is it...