Another fit has brought me down again.
Mentally prone, I lie in wait of rest,
But sleep does not come, nor will it stave pain.
For there can be little that will work best.
The mind's infection races far and wide,
Bringing the body ache and heart distress.
The past's indiscretions will not subside,
So that the new born soul can not confess.
So it tries to force and bring clarity back,
To bring these things forward into the light.
But psychoses push back, a swift attack,
And silent the voice falls on the cold night.
An utterance so soft it's barely caught
As he dreams of the woman never forgot.
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