Nomad Writer

What has worry

Ever given as a reward

But painful wrinkles

Of unseen decay

And endless ravines

Gushing with putrid streams

Of polluted thoughts

Pinching every muscle

Into miserable scowls

Bones grinded to soot

‘Neath the fretful steps

Of a heavy heart?

And what has worry

Ever accomplished

In the absence of hope

But to squeeze mirth to

Doleful gasps

On a sallow breeze?

I know the answer

That nothing good

Comes of a mind

Stuck in the brambles

Of anxious misgivings

And yet

I cannot help but to

Wilfully stray and stumble

Within its pit of thorns