With downward eye he cries,

But not aloud.

An inward aching, fearful

Shifting from side to side.

A turning tearful glance.

To what? To where? How much?

Alone? What if? And Why?

All at once.

And then to where his soul would fly…

No place, nowhere,

No answer.

But to try.

But he’s worn out to trying

And broken to the fight.

The world is run by wits

But when wits fail, what then?