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.