a rising boil of turmoil
In which growth is certain
but lacking space for old soil
which is budding without me
but may need some pruning
I call unto Thee
It seems this place
is where I should stay
for a season
But what about the flowers?
All I can do is pray
Yet what does that make me?
Am I carrying on irresponsibly?
The toll on my sleep
too can be seen in my eyes
Yet at rest my heart is
though rest is far from sight.
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