Tortured Scribe

Delusions scattered like dying embers,
How shall I then progress?
The world revolves on a shaky spindle;
The heart barely beats in my chest.

Having given so much to this life,
I fear I’ve gone insane –
I awake at night with a sudden fright
And a fever in my brain.

I reach into the night descending;
A trembling hand extends.
My fingers white, with no insight
I grip the writer’s pen.

Words drip onto a page uncurled;
A scattering of thoughts still burning.
My soul calls out, “God, let me out!”
And speaks of desperate yearning.

Like splattered pools of fallen rain
That swallow my reflection,
I’m lost again and deep within
The fog of introspection.

And still no words to rise within
My consciousness this day;
Expressions of this tortured scribe
Must find another way.