bereft yet full

i'm wrung out
with no idea of what's next
tears and coffee drip out of me
-very little blood left-

reaching the end of wit
floods smallness and humanity
brimming to my eyes,
the palpable reminiscence
of my lacking ability
to control the world.

the air goes silent,
-ringing-
people mouthing so many helpful
distant things.
vision blurs
the future dims
and each labored footfall
against the wind
hurts.

poetries and scripturings--
prayers by me
for me
from some other wayfarer
who's walked this trail before
or begrudgingly foretold the story

peace is felt in the flow
of a pen
or in the little blood
there is left...