When all other things have come to rest
each in its own time and to its own place
will my mind still be churning and burning within
leaving no hope for honest respite?
Do I stand alone upon this knoll
being one to all
and to myself another
til all the images race together
in a cacophony
of sound and color
that splits the air
with a banshee wail!
The echos reverberate through my mind
with no steady course between the constants.
No hint of Gibraltar here.
Where lie the green pastures we were promised
and the peace of still waters untroubled by doubt?
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