Term it artistic,
Term it a turmoil.
What it progresses further,
Will regard for me it's true soil.
These phases of uncertainty
These phases of rejoice.
These happenings in regard,
Have instigated my true voice.
Rather than guilt,
Rather than plea.
I sit in a hole, yes;
But I can vouch for me.
The uncompromising tenderness,
The unwavering dedication.
His presence is fulfilling,
Fits just perfect, no alteration.
Succumbing to this grace
Has lit the lowest floor,
I can be content just here;
Even by the door.
