If I seek to flee tormenting thoughts--
because I'm so very tired--I find
it's no use--they're still there. Wherever I
turn, however try to drive them away,
they thrust themselves up in a relentless
even fierce assault. If I threaten them,
they laugh, rack, break me until I can think
of nothing else; if I yield, suddenly
they have wings, imperious, elude me.
What should I do? who will comfort or help
a mind self-tortured. How hard the world is.
My present so painful, my future perhaps
worse. Yet while maybe death has undone so
many, I wish my pain to go on and on.
B A2:7:57. Key