Tearing the skin of gore

Restless thoughts fill my day.
And while the middling streams subside
into muddy deltas of night,
I wonder if this is the prophecy of pain
the seer broke me as a child.
Is pulling through the grassy stairs of ugly hierarchy such a drag on the tender soul?
Or am I misplaced on the hill of life?
For every twitter has its height,
beneath which it decays
like a muon in the high skies.
But hold on the disintegration.
Not every summer can you touch,
nor every milestone pass.
Sometimes you need to pick yourself;
Dust and trust,
cheer and resteer,
even when you’re razed to unplumbed hell:
for God has plans if you can stick,
if you can meet the morn with grace.
The Sun can’t be reined from mines of hell,
and wild seas can’t be dammed.