Lord, people Just go on living, Dying--and I just keep crying, For what I don't even know Anymore. In a mind Once clear As a mountain lake, There seems Nothing left to take, Nothing there But polluted ache. All my dreams Show their seams, The flimsy threads Which bind them Too loosely To a battered brain. O Lord! The pain Comes from Not understanding From whence comes The pain! It is cruel To hurt For no good reason. And if I must, Why had I A season Of joy in the sun, Of love where Moonbeams run? Is every day A little dying, All my crying Just my life Slowing running down? At least tell me, God, what my Running down is for!
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