are the wave
which crashes my shore,
washing my substance far off to sea;
are the wind
which batters my door,
deluging undertow, wearing down Me.
find it odd
that my road cannot bear
the weight which it should, and so you fume;
count it strange
that my countenance wears
a funeral pall, like a runaway tomb.
what your actions have done,
your heart, calloused over, waxes blind;
will still try
with your bullying run
to make sure that my path’s undermined.