On top of this book,
a troubled hand takes afoot.

Onto revelations and vows
to never once descend down.

Yet in thought I'm in the ground,
where roots lay reaching around.

Where roots spurge this morning's surface,
is where I lay under the sun's emergence.

And awaken to a rise,
akin to finally reap my righteous eyes.

That I'd swore would never see,
Any light, less the tide of the dawn's waking sea.

Yet I stand once more in the sand's defiance,
and brush off peebles from my shoulder's shine.

I hope I'll keep my weight on God's reliance,
and efface my own, my murder, my conscience.