​With downward eye he cries,
But not aloud.
An inward aching, fearful
Shifting from side to side.
A turning tearful glance.
 
To what? To where? How much?
Alone? What if? And Why?
All at once.
 
And then to where his soul would fly…
No place, nowhere,
No answer.
But to try.
 
But he’s worn out to trying
And broken to the fight.
 
The world is run by wits
But when wits fail, what then?