Stepping into the mold

I am surrounded by people, so many faces, and who do I run to? I want to nest into the crevasse of my mother's shoulder, mend my way back into her womb. That time is a distant haze. And the voice. He is there, for this is inescapably true, but sometimes the wind is not always warm. His power is great, mostly sweet, and yet I am human. I long for touch. A hand on my cheek to fall asleep just right. Is this wrong? Maybe not a matter of right and wrong, but purpose and prospect. I will follow The voice. His will be mine. I will search where I have sought, and what of the footprints in the mud? Tattered and worn by too many. Incomplete. I will make anew my own. His path will be mine. I am stepping into the mold; the mold that is me.