Crease of life

O master forgive me if I am late:
The hills were too steep and often misled my eyes.
Strong friends who could’ve burned the woods for my way,
were lost in early selfless sacrifice.

I must be looking too haste for your repose,
for you’d dressed me in your distilled strengths.
But if I still made it through the ghosts and gores,
do I deserve the agreed dividends?

There are too many so dear to me,
who wait in what my unmet promise stirs.
If I did melt my soul to burn the wick of hope,
could you pass the light and be my mirror?