+*+*+
Drowning in
the rising tide,
no high ground,
no place to hide.

There's no safe place,
neither left or right,
nor front or back,
throughout the night.

Brain is burning,
in a fever,
no turn-off valve,
no stress-reliever.

These mares of night,
drag me through mire.
They start as soon
as I retire.

Long restless nights,
they come and go.
What brings them on,
I do not know.

Perhaps warm milk,
will sooth the beast,
'til gold sun rises,
in the east.
+*+*+