My mind is almost clear
Of old junk.
For now the detritus has slunk
Away to hide
The maze of my calculating brain.
Of a thing overthought
Frequently leaves me overrought.
This room is still and full of peace
So why can not my mind for long cease
In it’s whirring motion?
Must I forever be tossed upon this restless ocean?
I long for a lack of motion.
Yet there is no magic potion
To achieve a quiet soul,
Pursued by men of every nation
Though ‘tis a fact both sad and true
That inner peace is gained by so few.