(A soft poem written in the dead silence of dark morning.)
Can't sleep, and the night air smells of the greenery of pine.
Moths embed themselves in their nests, in the crevice of the ceiling.
They rest, but not sleeping.
Why this torment?
Loathe you, Insecurity.
Heaven knows why.
Make it right, you-
-stirring up things that ought not be stirred.
Sad seeds
reap a blue harvest.
Don’t be sad, you.
Him forsake never will He, you.
Soothe that rhythm hurting in your heart, too.
He takes away it with the blessing, you-
-if you don’t soon
Know Him better than the devil say true.
Next time, your troubles won’t be so blue.
Love me, you.
Who?
You.