O how a comfort to exist in sleep
Lovely oblivion so many receive
But so few appreciate

O how true mercy is my friend
Hugged in the arms of weariness
A moment restored from anxiety

O what freedom brings these words
The language of my soul
O what merriment

To read my thoughts on page
Written by another hand in haste
To finish a statement,
To release the containment

O how painful to awake
To rush back to a world of hate,
Hate for greed, lies and disfigurement

And let go
Of this peacefulness

My hands are raw and cracked like wind and wood,
My arms, they sway and dance all day in my boat,
My neck is sore from watching you, above me play,
You, great mountains of tree and stone, give me hope.

Half way up mountain,
Flesh so weary from journey,
  .  .  .  Pillows in the sky.

A strong weariness
has taken over the worn out shell
that is my own
no amount of rest
can cure

As each day passes
more reasons will be made
to give into temptation
and revert to old habits
from simpler times

Though these thoughts will linger
they will be nothing more
than faint whispers through the night

If these days find ways
to go on
than I
must do the same