What is this awful weariness,
This malaise that is upon me?
No taste for food, not one desire
except that I may sit and write.
Is this my body underlining what
my mind already knows,
that I can barely face my job another day?
Is this nausea reinforcing that I haven’t
got the stomach to continue seeing
dying people,
sick people,
vacant people?
What, Lord, what?
When the strongest feeling I have
is a desire to turn and run,
a wrenching desire,
is it you I’m running from
or toward?
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