On a Shaking Ground

You gave it to me and called it a present and ordered that I untie the wrapping unwillingly. But with all the laughs of irony I called it a burden, and now as I am standing on a shaking ground I could not help but see myself bargaining on the present.

You puffed it into me, so I am a mere breeze of your breath. No churches or temples that did not praise your present,  some even dedicated a lifetime thanking you for the present. And now that I am standing on a shaking ground I questioned its need, I questioned my pulse, sight, and wisdom.

While I expected it the least when I was nothing, you gave it, thrust it into my body to  and commanded that I live, carry it, and survive no matter what and take care of it. But now that I am standing on a shaking ground I can only recall what I endured living this life because of your present.

I could recognize all the muffled cries outside the building calling the name my parents gave to me, right after you gave me the present. And now that I am standing on a shaking ground I can either escape the falling building or only stay still for all the bricks to shutter down onto my figure huffing my last breath up to the wrathly sky to send you back the present.