I'm often troubled when I seem most calm,
For I can shut my face from what would daunt
My inward self. I mutter a soft psalm:
The Lord's my shepherd and I shall not want
He maketh me to lie in green pastures...
And yet he does not save me from disasters.
Those I must, with the tools I'm given
Eliminate myself, for my free will
By whose prerogative I'm always driven
Must be the key to my salvation still.
If it were otherwise, what would I be?
A mere illusion of a man. Therefore
I arm myself with equanimity
No matter what I'm readying it for.
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