When I strike, that bolt of realization flashes against pinpricked sky and cloud.
When I forget, they still call me “chosen”.
When I act, wake of destruction rippled against my families feelings.
When I believe, They watch over me as guides to folly and fiction.
When I leave, they walk with me to the end.
When I wake, they will still call me by name.
When I sleep, they chant and loom.
When I write, I don’t make much sense.