Thanking All the Gods
Oft a desert stretches out before me,
empty of hope, sustenance, or new vista.
It tortures me: Illusions of being free,
its windy tendrils teasing skin as mine own Callista.
And as my salt-crusted eyes searches the heat-dancing nadir,
my thudding heart grows ever weaker.
Thoughts abound unbidden about the Father,
His will in this, my quest as truth-seeker.
I strive on, each stride a small victory,
each breath I draw a gift from the gods of old.
My stubborn strength and smile born from legends of Thor and Loki,
but my will, my purpose, residing solely in the new Christ's countenance of gold.
As I leave my fate as so many times before,
in His hands still, both shielding me since times of yore.
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