God has drawn back his bow,
plucked me from the life I imagined for myself.
He has suspended me in the dead space, placed me
like an arrow in the center of waiting for the revelation.

I hang, pierced by uncertainty,
eager for movement toward the unknown destination,
anguished and stretched taut by tension, pulled between
holy plan of perfection and profane and sinister suffering.

I cannot breathe, cannot bear
to gaze upon the stopped world and all the people
repeating their meaningless mantras. The motion sickness
stifles my spirit even as it screams for release into the dream.

I become rigid, then quiver
with premonitions of purpose, cling to invisible core
of shrinking hope that I am shot through space, my self
hurtling with grace toward some target of love meant for only me.