The Stick

The Stick

I wish from me so far you’d stand.
My wicked friend with stick in hand.
No matter path in which I stray.
You walk beside me all the way.

What is this goal that you do seek?
To frighten me, to make me weak?
Your staff with weight of solid gold.
Who gave you power that you hold?

Each time I stumble, take a fall
You strike with stick while standing tall.
Compassion lack for pain I feel.
You see not strength as wound I heal.

I plan escape, to run I must
for you my friend I cannot trust.
Yes you can walk but cannot run.
And soon will wrath of stick be done.

I look in mirror, visions pour.
See images not seen before.
Bewildered stand, as tears I cry
for holder of the stick, was I.