The weak fear the world and still live (rough draft)

When the world has turned down the comforter and beckons you to lay your sorrows down for awhile, will you? Will you climb into the stiffness of the mattress that you are grateful for. Though each position is uncomfortable, will it let you close your eyes with calmness on your lips? A crook in your neck, strains in your back and finally tosses of frustration, you cannot escape what is of this world. If it’s too much to speak on it, can I wonder without guessing my words are coherent? Can I climb up to the top without severing pieces myself off to use in trade just to make it? 
When the world has swept over this house like a descending ghost snatching back the familiar places it too inhabited, will the sun overhead be enough? Can silence fill me and swallow each fly on the wall, digesting it to stop the uneasiness?
When the world has been internalized within me, can you pry me out so I can still see that there is beauty in survival? When the shoulders droop in despair and the groans have surpassed the barriers that these walls are, will the life lived for its entirety mean that you and I have passed the test.
When the children go home; in the field, four stairs winding up the brick wall and sand castles, will you deter me from wishing I too could retreat to what is now and the feeling of permanent. When the days seep into one another and the time doesn’t feel worthwhile, will you press your hand into my shoulders letting them indent firmly you too have wept for many days on end–stumbling through who you are.
When the words don’t leave my tongue kindly and beautiful, will they collect meaning that I am more than these fragile shortcomings?
When the world turns down the comforter for the evening with the sun still shining through the blinds, will you assure I and the  children it’s safe to dream, wrestle with ourselves and try once more?


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