Slow

I cannot process what I cannot think
I cannot think what I cannot believe
The world around me seems upon the brink
Yet I must focus inward still, and grieve.
The emptiness inside me leaves no room
For all the outward griefs that press me in
My inner struggle with my private gloom
Leaves me nowhere to possibly begin
To think about the rest. Within my heart
There is sufficient chaos to contain
I can't ignore the world, but for my part
I must address this first, more local pain.
To heal is slow; no virtue lies in speed
But in the meeting of each moment's need.

Flight

Imagine if you will a vast expanse
(And if you won't, well we can just stop here)
Through which the wind upon an endless dance
Whips back and forth (you do not need to fear:
Imagination will not make it so).
Imagine further, birds within the breeze
Who waft upon it circlingly slow.
Would you prefer to fly with them (now, please
Just bear with me) or walk along the plain
Watching them high above? I think that I
(And you are free to treat this with disdain)
For all that I would love, in dreams, to fly
Would rather watch (Agree or disagree?)
Admiring them floating over me.

Through

At times like these the words refuse to come.
I find I cannot write; I cannot think.
My mind is full of an insistent hum
That drowns me out. I think I need a drink.
But drinking wouldn't help me through it all;
It would just drown out pain with other pain.
I need to do more now than simply stall;
I have to find an outlet for this strain.
Lying awake will bring to me no rest
Wracking my brain will only lead to sorrow
I have no strength to do what I do best
But I can hope that I will have tomorrow:
Although I'm hardly sure what I should do
I'm certain that the only out is through.