If I were hewn from sterner stuff
and not so tightly strung,
I wouldn't tie myself in knots
for fear I'll come undone.
A mortar round, a sniffling sound
sink order's ship the same.
And, worries, random, real, and remote,
I wear them like a braid.
So with a pounding pain at the nape of my neck,
I seek the seer's shrine
and climb her creaking, listing stairs
to learn the extent of what's mine.
The seer tarried in the topmost loft
like a fear left to ripen and rot.
She handed me a mirror.
"Child, this is all the control that you've got."
Using Shawna's Thursday Words to vent a little stress for Fireblossom Friday