I stop not to want; to crave; to yearn for this and that, and the execution process of yours is tough.
Yes, full of mysteries and dis-satisfactory moments.
You appear to approach me with hands ready to grant, and I march forward to receive.
Then you suddenly stop and look totally unconcerned, and this flusters me right up to the core.
You lift me into expectation and then throw into wilderness.
You disown me any moment without even explaining the verdict, for you feel, yes you surely do, very disappointed of my acts.
My own faults hinder the grace, which you are ready to shower upon my parched soul.
And when I realize how I have failed you, I feel myself under the tormenting weight of shame.
I run helter-skelter to hide myself from you, for I fear and dare not approach you after that.
But I fail in finding a place bereft of you, O my Overself, and again come to you begging that I might be spared.
I failed in correcting myself and again fail in running away from you.
I want your grace and benediction of forgiveness. You muse and muse and…
I still want to be spared. I still want and stop not to want.