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 Settle. 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.