He’s just finished. He’s had it. And that’s it. What does he want?
Something else, maybe.
What is the problem, exactly? He knows. He’s tired.
He can’t bear it anymore, and supposedly that’s good?
That’s a good thing? It’s unbearable. That’s it. We’re done. He’s done.

He’s out, finished, won’t be having any more.
Will my father hear me? I don’t care if he listens.
But, will he say something; will he look me in the eye
And meet my gaze and hold it, will a tear stand in that eye
(It doesn’t have to fall, in fact I’d rather it didn’t),
Will I know that He cares and is just as helpless as I am?

That’s it. I don’t even need to be saved, not from this: how can I?
The removal of any one thing
Or even all the barbs and thorns would not restore peace.
But a communion of helpless suffering? That would make it bearable.
Share this with me, and let me see it. I have to see it.

I can’t imagine it, it has to be real,
And I have to see it with my eyes, and that’s it.
Perhaps the tear could even fall. Weep with me, weep silently.
No, raise your voice, wail aloud with me.
Lament, and let me know for one blessed moment
That I don’t have to be so alone. It’s crushing, it’s truly suffocating.
Please; I beg, on my knees, prostrate; I beg.