Sometimes to rise to it is to rise against yourself,
against a history of least resistance—
paths so easy they must have seemed right, now
furrowed,
pocked like timber roads, useless
beyond their first intent.
It hurts watching you try to rise
between rock and bone only to bottom,
dragging promises and plans,
as though they, too, were set in concrete.
I cannot keep asking you to rise.
Your inability to surface and stand
is not love—
but there it is.
So many nights
I have thrashed myself
as if wrestling an angel,
finding neither god
nor forgiveness.
I have come full circle—
through myth, through story—
to accept my place:
the one who offers the map,
the sword,
the mirrored shield,
and waits—
Still you will not rise.
I am almost done
hoping you are a chrysalis
about to open—
not a hero,
just a man.
How much longer
can I rise to you?
