A tiny leaf, with stem and thorns
attached to the vine and called to conform
yet in my efforts I am tangled and worn
and from this vine I desire to be torn.
A shade of green is the distant blend
with a hint of brown at a closer views end
and accented stretched tears when I don't depend
and from this vine I look to sever my end.
A firm foundation, though I am blown about
Is what keeps me held amidst the winds that shout
and when the storm settles I never feel left without
...left without wondering what has really come about.
I've stayed true to the vine and I perch out in hope
I wait for the storm and call on it's girth
to noose up the stronghold with my self-proclaimed rope
but the vine quickly says - dear leaf, what is your worth?
I am but a leaf, attached to a vine
uncaringly caring over seasons of time
I am but a leaf, but as a leaf I do not shine
because from my birth, I have called nothing mine.
From the vine I extend, but I extend as myself
and the seasons I live are my pain and health
the vine - it supplies - and calls me live
it calls me to feel, to hurt, and to give.
As the leaf I have tried ... to hard to please
that the vine hasn't been given what it needs to receive;
it needs to receive me tattered and torn
it needs to receive me frail and worn.
I need to be real, more than theological
I need to know I feel, and that I am personal
So let me fight for the faith, and conform to your word;
but it will only be done if I let me be me - with feeling and personality - because that is how true life is understood
