I sit with you, my friend.
My silence--I can't comprehend--
words fail me, unsure what to say;
simply, "It will all be okay."

The answer I gave is right,
but sincerity dies with trite.
Life's tribulations have reason,
even for this recent treason.

Time will connect with the timeless--
then sense can be made of all this mess;
but when, I cannot be sure of--
'til then, I'll console you with love.

This idea of clarity--
closure to the problems that be.
An illusion that may comfort.
"How do you know?" Is your retort.

"Cause the world works itself out"--
If that's the case, I then doubt
my, now former, preached discernment--
Discrepancies make me repent.

It's the perception that counts...
"Don't depress when confusion mounts,
you searched all reason-- all, but one:
     That your life will be better
     If the clarity remains undone"