For Thy Peace, My Soul

48.

The sultry summer lingers. Hot exhalations of a diminishing globe—a delicate Spring flower placed under an inescapable jar that weeps, though it is the cause of the wilting. The aging sun glares and grumbles and burns away the wispy clouds, breathes fire into the wind. Imaginary thunder rumbles miles away, but the rains never come.

Even I can do naught but lounge in the shade. The howls and relentless raging of my burdens hushed for a time. If I close my eyes, will they ever open again? If I fall into the darkness of slumber, will I forget my last breath and find my peace?

Let me go.