Swiping and slashing, I claw at the overgrowth’s sharpness, aching to lift my legs and move, grasping for vines that might save me. Yet, I don’t want to be saved, exactly. I crave absolution.
On tattered, tired, and bended knees, I offer you a ridged branch, begging for penance, desperate for your command, yearning for you to envelope me in the shelter of your palm.
Help me be my vine.
And then I wonder, how heavy is that staff? Is the weight just too much?
You answer, you deliver. You take and give, give and take. With each conviction, a little of you infiltrates me, suffocating the darkness, penetrating every fiber of muscle, saturating each porous bone, filling and filling until you seep up through every follicle and pore, spilling out and bending to my every contour, forming a shield upon my flesh that no thorn can puncture.
Now, I can weave my vine, with threads of you in the center, the strength in its core.
Together we can conquer; we can see the forest though the trees.
-image via Pixabay