I’m afraid of my own bewilderment,

When I wake in the half shadows of the dark.

And the red patterns that dance before my eyes,

When I am half asleep.

And the washes of my time disappearing through my hands.

The little bits of my achievement rattle in a match box.

While mounds of undone work wait to be piled on my grave.

The withered embryo of my ingenuity

Lies folded in a paper,

Starved by my weakness and the parasite of waiting.

I am bound by my indolence

And the silence of my voices

Come the music and the sun

To warm me and let my words

sing again, O God.

Read by Rex Campbell: