I’m worn-out; tired as I’ve never been before.
Weary in a
not sleepy frantic hungry and hysterically wild frightened,
Apart and away.
Restless and abysmal
[unable to talk because some problems are not for public consumption.]
I lay arrested, in the midnight hours, whispering
Jesus, what are we going to do?
Some problems are so profound, causing the scary-monster-in-the-closet
that you cannot
cry enough tears.
The universe isn’t large enough to contain these fears. I cannot pray
long and hard enough, for there are no words
for this kind of tired.
where’s the comfort? No pithy assurances.
Except soul weary, bone aching, wretched