Why is it that the thoughts do jostle sadly close,
and ride upon the feelings of the day and night,
where sorrow holds the reins of raddled reason;
consciousness is torn through fear's dark blight?
I cannot answer questions which do form and fold,
and tuck the sheets of hope beneath the bed,
which made itself as optimism watched beside;
and yet the answers hold the knife; I'm bled.
If there were any way to straighten passion's mind,
and call to order all that strangles faith,
so would be restored, the plan and purpose bright;
forgiveness then could take the place of hate,
and neaten corners, edges, tangled ends -
plump high the pillows, where love rests her head.