Yet.

Perhaps, while floating down this river,
one day I'll be found
with the rest of those who delayed their prize,
desires for the crown.

Limp my withered soul,

inside my withered skin

breaks with the weight of me I carry,

sags in the arms of Him.

And my angry body, fatigued and lame,
can push itself no longer.
With sticky breath I choke a cry
to one who still is stronger.

And though the light is passed to grey
to my heart, so badly broken;
I suck these laboured breaths - I know
The Last Word has not been spoken.

Amen.