My
restive brain a twitching heap,
I
pray the Lord will soon send sleep;
and,
as the clock ticks two, then four,
I
pray the Lord will send some more.
It’s
not that I’m upset or scared,
but
only that my mind’s not spared
from
thoughts that wriggle and ferment,
that
come without express consent.
But
maybe there’s a way to cope.
When,
wide awake, I stare and grope
for
thoughts to still my troubled head,
there’s
something I can try instead.
So
many folks are now beset
by hopelessness
'mid mounting debt;
so
many sick and quarantined,
no
matter how they’ve scrubbed and cleaned.
I’ll
pray for those who come to mind;
for
some, I know, are in a bind,
while
others’ needs are hidden deep.
And
then I bet I’ll get to sleep.
Copyright ©2020, Paul H. Harder II
This
poem is licensed under a Creative Commons
BY-NC-ND 4.0 License
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