Etching into the pit of my gut is a claw
A niggling worry and dismay of substantial proportion.
A troublesome feeling is poured — It spills out onto the surface like a thick syrup, enveloping my body and pulling it down to the mattress. It slides down my face. My eyelids are weighted with the concern of it all. I am watching. I am waiting. I am listening. I am useless to the cries of songbird filling my ears. I can do no good in a state like this. Too distant. Too ungrown.
No rest. Only lying down.
A frantic mind, but a slow heartbeat.
Where is your safety, little songbird? Is it near? Is it far? I'd cast my net to catch you if only I could. If only I could reach.
My net would secure you only to take you to shelter and mend your wing.
But my hands give too strong a tremble.
My body gives too little strength.
My sweet little songbird, where is your song? Will it return?
Why can't I help you sing?
