Three years now I have followed
the path in which You've set.
Great milestones have been met
but the anchor's chain still drops.

The year before last,
challenges were external.
At a time, post-vernal,
the flood began, sans-ark.

Simple words assailed in waves,
ignored through red-skied mornings.
Ignominy aborning, through lovely scornings,
a reflective pool showed the two visibles.

My path had grown dark between lamposts
the distances grew with self isolation.
Without light, advances cause irritation--
with light I can see my fright.

To all I've hurt,
and for all it's worth,
my robbery of mirth
requires penance.

This pen knots the future,
a copy to be sent in turn,
for my lost friends to learn
the pain one wields with a pen.