Tattered and tense
from the torments of late
bearing strong evidence
of a mind in a state.
No longer resolving
the pettiest chore,
the room keeps revolving
from ceiling to floor.
So stepping outside
for a breath of fresh air
and wanting to hide
from a world hard to bear.
Of my wisest resorts
is to look to the sky
giving up on retorts
for my God, who's on high.
"I'm at my wits' ends!"
I cry out in sorrow.
"What further impends
as you see my tomorrow?"
But feeling his touch
in remembering a Psalm,
soothes my spirit so much
that I'm healed from the calm...
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