The only symptoms I have
Are fear,
Cold inside me.

A headache of uncertainty
And the sickness of worry
In the pit of my stomach.

The world feels brittle
I realise the illusion of control
Was simply that.

Inevitably I look to myself
For resources to cope
But fall short.

Do you wonder how long it will be,
Till in despair,
I turn to your outstretched hand?