And sometimes my thoughts flow yearning for a place to rest (or hide).
And other times they circulate in my mind like air in a room without circulation,
Sometimes growing stale, while other times seeming fresher than the polluted mess on the outside.
When I'm angry they race, tugging at my emotions seeking to validate, temper, and check,
When I'm focused the questions and answers come before actions and words:
Is this just, merciful, a humble walk with my God?
Sometimes I feel the need to hide in open spaces, and I hope that isn't strange, silent reflections at once available to and ignored by millions