sheep and lunatics

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Inside this fragile chest galumphs a thousand Apache horses on their way to fight a war. I am finding it nearly impossible to breathe. They stomp and they stride, my lungs are entangled with the manes of such wondrous, frightening creatures. I don’t know when I grew so afraid, or why these nightmares chose to trample on me. Am I that exceptional? Or just that insecure? And are they unwilling to take me alive?

Or do I refuse to keep my spirit up?

I often hear violent, ritual wildness in my sleep. No, I do not bleed for war, but there are wars in my blood. The heart is the most brutal battleground known to mankind. Pastors, poets, sheep and lunatics, they all draw battalions inside of their bones, my insides are pierced with arrows, and I seldom have the strength to pull them out.

I just need to know, if you knew the road to peace, would you walk it with me? Or would you make me travel alone?

Honestly, I don’t need you to promise me eternity today. But will you eternally promise me today? If the world wants eternity, they can have it. Just give me today, please. Give me your right now, and I will give you mine.

Forgive me; I know I lack the patience you require. I sometimes think I ask too much of you. Other days I fear I do not ask enough. That is why I am asking you now: If not all roads lead to you, will you take any road to get to me?

I’m all war horses and weapons inside, wrap me in your arms. Caress my battered mane. I’m pulling apart to be put back together.

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