Now it is me who will end, the Cycle. And break the wheel. As a child I drove, carts, pulled reins, driven along old, broken roads. Born of dirt, of mud, a pit of destiny. Pulled myself out by my own strength, and the great Lord.
Broken people, broken memories unfold. All in terrible roles, a rising tide, of pain and misery. Famine is my mother, hunger is my father. A cage, confined space, seeking refuge, in jail. Bei Brot und Wasser sitzen. Day after day, clueless, helpless. Before unfulfillment, there was misguidance.
I pierce like disease, unease, fault, to falter. Peace when you are done, it is given at the end. I would etch that onto my mind, if I could think. You think too much. You speak too much. Hasn’t anyone told you?
At the doorstep, the onset, the beginning. Child in time. I am your child.
I will not self-censor, self-regulate. Administer, a state of peace, and understanding.
A place of firm ground.
I am standing.