I dare not say
what I might write
if just left to
pen and light.
I dare not think
of what I’d do
if bereft of
love and thought of you.
I’m overtaxed
with sight and sound
And filled with
dread of greater wrongs.
So, I move my
attention
give attention
pay attention
pay the price by
moving my thoughts into the debit column of your offering.
It’s in your
hands now
and with head
bowed,
divested of
being in the center,
I lay at the
edge
no longer in
torment.
