There are wee hours in the morning

When I see things differently

When I ask myself who I am,

Ask what I’m doing or where I’m going

Where I’ve been, why I’m here

There’s a fear that clings to me

It deals with the unknown— at least partly

It’s not a fear of death, it’s of pain,

Of undue suffering, of the unbearable even

I feel so small in those tiny hours,

So unsuccessful, however untrue it may be

It’s the Evil One perhaps

The One that relishes our unwarranted fears

The One that rolls on the floor when we stumble

The One that wants to pulverize us,

To grind us sweetly into nothingness

Evil cannot bear good

And good does not always prevail

There are those wee hours

Sad in the morning when I see

But not clearly cause it’s dark

I’m dark, the fear is dark

The dark is all around like a gulf…

There are wee hours looming, hovering

And they are there when I’m in need

Of the good and of the supportive

Of the Light—

The Light that has no cheap bulb, no wall socket

Or plastic coated cord connected.

Got it Baby?