My faith may think I think of no such thing. The way I walk rides in the glide from the pop of my stride though my chin hangs low. The vast differences I believe, the fake misfortunes I’m forced to dream. But what about me? The days some days I’m drained form the ways I can’t change. Denying the dangers of my own souls goal for I am not, who I think I am. I’m pacing as grand as I can, but the world, its weight, my days, I’m great, but wait.