I’m lost in a forest of the tallest trees,
inundated with wickedly bent, sinister trunks,
thicket so dense my feet can barely move,
the air damp and heavy,
sitting like rocks in my lungs.
Swiping and slashing,
I claw at the overgrowth’s sharpness, aching to lift my legs and run, grasping for vines that might save me.
Yet, I don’t want to be saved.
I crave absolution.
On tattered, tired, and bended knees,
I offer you a ridged branch,
begging for penance,
desperate for something rigid to hold onto,
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?
But you answer,
You take and give,
give and take.
With each give and take,
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.
With you, I can weave my own vine,
with threads of you in the center,
your strength attached to mine in its impenetrable core.
Together we can conquer –
we can see the forest for the trees.