A woman runs on a trail silhouetted by a setting sun shrouded by fog.

the maze’s ceaseless amazements

spirals of misty woolen blinds

the web of spiders tightening their grip

the mind a foggy wire mesh

run, run, run, run

backward glances only manage to confound

lot’s wife didn’t make it out alive

look ahead with Joshua’s faith, then maybe your praise will crumble walls

run, run, run, run

your heart demands it.

the blackness blinding tangible swells of pride

those fingers of dread and doubt grab hold

but the blinding light just beneath the surface that you should imprint in your blood

so your soul  be the broken record of a wrenching rendition of hope

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