Mostly

Mostly, we manage. One day at a time .

The night between is balm enough to mend the weary mind, 

but other days we find each minute quite sufficient burden for the soul. 

Times tyranny, relentless, rolls, steamrollering our souls beneath the weight of care .

Yet even there, and even then, the still small voice returns again in wordless symbols drawn.

That touch, that glance, that shaft of light, 

that scent, that air, that moonbright night, 

that blackbird song above the city's din. 

A second's span is all it needs; another world slips in. 

A breathing in, a breathing out, a filling of the lungs with air. We will survive, because a still small voice is there.