I'm afraid of my own bewilderment... by Charis Southwell

I'm afraid of my own bewilderment,
When I wake in the half shadows of the dark.
And the red patterns that dance before my eyes,
When I am half asleep.
And the washes of my time disappearing through my hands.

The little bits of my achievement rattle in a match box.
While mounds of undone work wait to be piled on my grave.

The withered embryo of my ingenuity
Lies folded in a paper,
Starved by my weakness and the parasite of waiting.

I am bound by my indolence
And the silence of my voices
Come the music and the sun
To warm me and let my words
sing again, O God.