I cannot be still.

Not in the motionless sense,
Rather, I talk of stillness of mind,
And calmness of heart.
So important, that contentment.
So difficult to achieve.
At least for me.

Instead, my mind scurries.
Hither and thither.
Rooting out old fears,
Revelling in stale thoughts.
Leaving me uneasy, disturbed
And totally, spent.

What is it about the night
And the stillness of the dark
That makes me so?
Is it that the blackness
Forms a shroud around me?
Then, unfinished tasks, unresolved issues
Become insistent companions.

I cannot silence these unheard voices.
I cannot make my freewheeling thoughts
But perhaps, I can learn, slowly
And painfully,
To live with my rights and my wrongs.
My good and my bad.

And then, maybe just maybe,
I can learn to still my unquiet self.

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