Thought From My Infusion Chair

This disease sometimes seems strong to me
Much like a fiery furnace or
Eowyn’s midnight cage.

And this IV line that ties me to this chair
Feels like the voice of a Babylonian King “Now see
If your God can deliver out of my hand.”
It tethers me here
While this dream and that desire
Waltz through jungles, soar over seas.
Until I, too, pour out my fear into the bitter watches of the night.

And I have gathered enough strength,
Logically compiled data from experience that says
“Oh! My God can! He can! He has! He does!”
I’ve even, on my braver days,
Taunted back that dreadful phrase
“But if not, know this: I’ll never bow.”
Your claim of sovereignty above Him is not sound.

But these three children, furnace bound,
Were men.
Who deal so well in logic. Seem to find
Their fate acceptable. Glory in a death with honor.

Princess with your sword,
I find you more relatable.
Answering a monster’s fearsome claim:
“No living man can kill me…..”
With “Surprise! No living man am I,”
As I let down my hair,
“You look upon a woman!”
Did not our desperation and our need
Once raise the dead?

Oh, hemmed garment, I follow hard behind
With hand outstretched.