These doldrums have become a dull drum..
predictable repetition of such numbingly wearisome rhythm.
My heart beats far too extravagantly,
far too alive,
to find its rest in this pattern.
And so, stand I will not...
wait expectantly I will not.
Tarrying has lost its luster in the blinding light of promise.
I have lost my interest in the decoration of performance.
Her metals are not rare.
Rusted and conventional,
they leak they're poison through the flesh of my chest...
entering the bloodstream, and corrupting the heart.
I will not give up my breath to self-made and tepid,
if that's what is to give You glory.
It's all You
or it's all me.
You, who orchestrates the rhythm of this heart.
Write your resonant symphony,
or will me your wand.
Only one of us can conduct,
and the zenith of time is upon us.
If You are who I hope,
breathe life into wearied and numb...
be the heart-bending melody and sweeping landscape.
Do, so I will not.
These doldrums are not my home,
so make for me a land called pleasure...
lest I am left to my own limbs and devices,
to fulfill promises my heart did not dare to utter.
All, or nothing.
Beneficial is the chief responsibility and,
I want to believe,
the sole longing of the benefactor.
For better or worse.