Forecast reads no chance of hell,
but like the sky it comes when it pleases,
catching me off-guard.
I never see the clouds form,
no thunder to warn.
Hell falls like stones,
rendering me useless.
I cower beneath the tree of Christ
and hope its leaves are enough.
I nurse my scrapes,
my hands swollen and bruised,
and step into the sunlight again
to climb the hill put before me.
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