In illness, it is true- that one must face the trials alone.
Though others may walk with us, they cannot move the weight.
The boulder rolls back over us, though no sins it will atone.
One must imagine one’s self happy, and the unholy consecrate.
The pain must be made ethereal, one finds ichor in one’s veins.
The sleepless nights must be meaningful, a matter of control.
One must resolve to see the dawn, for there will come soft rains.
Eventually, one finds the truth, that one must render one’s self whole.
So if I am one, and you are too, and still we walk unaided,
Why do your words, so gentle, warm my somber spirit?
More than you or I are we, an understanding cultivated.
divinity within one’s grasp, and one’s death it is to fear it.
I know not who I am, nor who I was before.
So tell me who I am, and simply make me more.