I’m worn-out; tired as I’ve never been before.
Weary in a
not sleepy frantic hungry and hysterically wild frightened,
nothing-is-working,
everything
is
falling
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
kind
of
fright
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.
Comfort, Jesus
where’s the comfort? No pithy assurances.
No words.
Except soul weary, bone aching, wretched
tired.
Logic & Imagination 