Miles away from the truth I wander in a land parched and dry, absent of life-nurturing rain. The foundation beneath me is brittle, cracked and open to furroughs of deceit. I travel with tired and filthy feet. Head and shoulders blistered from the heat, bowed I am with weariness as I push on. Sheer stubbornness leads me in a directionless path, eyes and lips swollen shut and all but useless. The lies of improbability and false positives trick my mind all the day, rising up from those beguiling cracks in the terra firma on which I stand. Shivers of fear and undisciplined clattering teeth are my companions in the coldness of the night in this land of smoldering heat by day.
Close by, the Lover waits, beckoning me to shed the shroud of pride. Without it, I am naked and I am vulnerable. Without it, I have no power. I have no protection. My identity recedes into anonymity. The Lover speaks, putting to death the lies and the deceit. The Lover reminds me, but I cannot hear. The Lover reminds me, but I am afraid to listen. There is no resurrection without putting to death. There is new life when the old life is cast aside. Carrying my burial clothes with me, there is certain death. Casting aside the claims of hell, there is eternal life.
Miles away I wander; close by the Lover yet waits.
Dare I exchange these garments of death for the garments of a bride?