A further roughening
Longing begins when that thin layer of ice
burns the skin down through to muscle and bone.
Strain at the tether long enough,
the strain itself becomes the tether --
looseness binds; delight chafes;
time issues yet a further
tumbling and roughening;
freedom begets a vapid, lonely inertia.
The ache for release, eyes scrubbed by tears,
and the lock's key becomes the fiery ache.
O! Rough and vast is the pitching ocean,
the true course straight and narrow.
I can't hold the wheel! Lord!
I can't hold the wheel! Come!
Lend Your shoulder; apply Your will.
Lord, come. I can't hold the wheel.
O child of God, let barriers and encumbrances
become the means of propulsion and velocity.