I’ve been trying to let my heart be light,

let hope buoy it

as it inflates the cavity in my chest

where I think my soul would reside

had it a physical home.

The human mind is a fickle thing.

We think,

thinking we control it,

but it controls us,

foiling every good procedure we know we need to follow.

Our minds psych our selves out  –

of our minds.

There must be some outer guidance,

some supplication,

if our insides are not to roil about,

acidly eating away from the core, out.

A gentle hand

A supernatural help

There but for the grace of God, go I

where my heart floats lightly in the center of my soul.