wit's end

the weight of fatigue of push and pull

i tear my clothes against the steel and plastic

that harnesses the course of my life

to which i yield

 

we think so modern and so we are

by standards of the age of stone and stick

but in terms of pain of outcome are no different

our ancestors of that age

 

our turn,

our weary muscles,

our tendons burn,

our nerves buzz,

our joints ache,

the force of nature is strong

it will never change

 

i reach for a drink at end of day

the push and pull go on without release of hold,

no free of grasp to it

as i reach for more of the same each day

 

the chatter

the clatter steeped in countless matters,

its a wonder the overload doesn't tear our hearts apart

or does it?

 

i find myself in a stupor in the morning of that day

followed without mercy by the night

into which i plunge,

to the moving treadmill of life

 

i am broken,

i trudge,

i fall,

i crawl

the treadmill drags me away

hidden tears of grief restrained

take their toll on my soul

pain of helplessness of the pain

 

the thoughts in my head are pierced,

assaulted by jagged bits of sand and gravel,

shards of glass cut and hurt my thoughts

impede my work at hand,

my urge for peace, for rest

is insulted by the fiery darts, so disguised

are hurled by the foes that surround us unseen

while angels fight, help us resist

while measuring the scene

 

i fall

and fall again

and rise

and push and pull, resist

every weapon i have,

employed,

 

still,

fatigue weighs my thinking down,

the onslaught is unrelenting

fatigue makes the assault stronger

hard on mere flesh and blood

i would otherwise be forever destroyed

as is for some,

parts, or all

no one goes unscathed

perplexed and vexed

 

i am distraught at wit's end

i fall again unsure and fragile,

my heart can't take much more i know

 

i must walk, limp or crawl another mile nonetheless,

make it to the end of yet another trial

among the previous millions from the start

to my present life,

in this world,

in this time

in this age

with everybody else

 

i must make it to the end nonetheless,

somehow

despite my wounded beaten heart

and anxiety called fear

until he said:

My presence shall go with thee, and I will give thee rest

i heard this morning at the start of another day