Oh ye of little faith

(a poem from ground level to those living in the pit, not about religion)

Do you wish to be proven wrong, or proven right?
To have your fears swallowed whole by that fantastical thing:
the presence you crave whose existence you deny?
Do you want an excuse to give up, or a reason not to?
To keep swinging at ghosts and know not whether you hope to land a blow or catch air?
Do you wish for an exception? To be the one that proves the rule?

What happens if your rules are wrong?
(a genuine question)
What happens if all the best things you fear come true?
(a loving threat)
What happens if I stop carrying your faith?
If I set it down gently before you and walk away?
How will you treat it, this thing I’ve borne like my own child?
With care, or with those swinging fists?

Will you still walk if you’re bearing what belongs to you?
Will you struggle forward on those wobbly legs until they grow strong?
Or will you sit down and wait for the next beast of burden that happens your way?
(an ass)
(like me)
(not yet worn with all those uphill miles)

When I do this
will I grieve that I could not save it?
(or you)
Or will I be relieved to know
that I never could have?