They may be fragile and minimal, they may be small and frayed, they may not be existent after all, but they are all I have, my broken oars. Dont burn them. A long journey it is to His golden shores, I need to row all the way there, a long way it is to my Maker's feet, oh please dont burn them oars.
Wrath awaits all those who have tried to incinerate my oars. Wrath will engulf all of you who have gnawed away at my soul, may wrath decimate your jest of an existence, a dried leaf in a wildfire, may all you who have burned my oars incur Devastating ire. Failures you are, humble grovelers at best, what right have you to rebuke? You nod your heads at the bidding of others, you sycophants, your dazzle is but a fluke.
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