The door doesn’t move.
Crumpled before it, I keep pushing
It won’t open.
My hands are broken and bleeding
As I pound my fists against the wooden beams.
Looking down at them I realise
This will never work.
I’m too weak.
Cold, I shudder and try to become
Smaller. A miserable ball.
The voice startles me and I look around.
No one is there.
Slowly, I begin to understand.
Leaning my head against the door
I sigh, and whisper, “okay.”
Nothing happens. My hands hurt.
They're still bleeding.
Then the door moves and nearly falling in
I look up.
Gently HIS hands lift me
Carefully, for I’m bruised and hurting,
HE takes my hands and the tears
Running down HIS face
Splash onto them and relieve some of the aching.
HE wipes off the blood and I can see
HE has blood on HIS own hands
But it’s not mine.
Pressing HIS fingers to my face
HE smoothes out the worried and pained lines.
I look ahead.
There’s still a long road to go.
Offering me HIS hand
He turns and leads me on.
Down the road