(Please do not copy or steal)
Through many fields I wander,
Down many paths I trod.
The Caretaker of the fields,
I meet Him in the hollows.
Under bent oaks we sit;
Upon cushioned moss we listen.
Undulating shadows downward cast,
Fleeting ghosts in the negative.
Stillness wrought from shivering whispers,
Grasses part to lead beyond.
Solemnly, lovingly beckoned,
'Tis not the last field for me.
Here I meet myself coming,
Here I meet myself going,
Here there is freedom for me.
In the next field over waiting,
I must pass through thorny hedges.
It needs be sharp, rending flesh,
To tear the mask away.
Drenched with blood, tears,
In a puddle fallen.
Demons rebuked lament.
Denied claws sheath.
Raw skin now meets sunlight.
Unused, concealed, long guarded,
Nearly lost in the grooves of time.
Cast against an old tree I slump,
Moaning, thirsty, broken.
Soft breezes sweet,
Soothe my fevered face.
My new skin the Caretaker nurses.
Gently knitting, mercifully mending.
"This field is so nice," I murmur,
Lolling against His side.
In silent agreement the Caretaker,
Offers a steadying arm.
On my feet, hands to my face,
I feel no scars, no bleeding wounds.
Childlike wonderment blossoms.
The Caretaker broadens a smile.
My heart leaps within.
Ancient hands cup my chin,
Grasp of eternal caressing finite.
"This field is nice, indeed my child."
A pause draws me into His gaze.
"But you should see the one up ahead."