When light fades to black, and the chill comes,
when horizon and foreground meld to one, and minutes tick by slower than day;
I find myself alone with my thoughts—the rest of my world sleeps.
dream streams of past, present, and never weave spells of narrative in my restless mind.
If I could make sense of it all, I could justify my tossing and turning,
my drifting and drama, but it all seems just a colorful exercise in nonsense-making—
but so not.
And I rise more weary.
I have done superhuman things in my dreams, but wake in silver light
as ordinary as when I went to bed.
And my dreams grow larger as my world grows smaller.
And my rest grows weaker as my need swells.
Are you in the visions, evanescent wisps, circling in cerulean night,
or is my unsettled soul strangled by the diary of a life housed in three pounds of flesh?
Isaiah 26:3 (ESV)
“You keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on you, because he trusts in you.”