Surrendering all thoughts of how or why,
I trusted you would guide me all the way
through desperation, dark in inky sky,
to transformation’s sigh at break of day.
I’d not known you’d allow my mind to fry
in moments of confusion, though I’d pray
for sustenance, but you would let me die
and cry until my tears had dried away.
I sometimes grasped that all the work performed
was orchestrated for my benefit,
including when by slander I was scorned
and blamed for acts that I did not commit.
With noble aspirations I conformed,
though you kept placing heart inside a pit.
I mourned not, as illusions, once adorned,
were smashed by your hard hammer, bit by bit.
Like gold and silver purified by fire,
you placed this soul on gracious funeral pyre.