Battered. Broken. Bloody. The mountain of healing is before me. What little energy I have left is spent raging at that mountain with the promise of healing but not the power to follow through. No hand comes to soothe my fevered brow. No hand comes to offer a cool drink of water to quench my parched and thirsty soul. My life’s blood spills to the ground where I lay dying. All around me are the things that wait for death so they may pick at my flesh and devour what is left of me.
