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?