my little rest

the trial has taken its toll,
the locusts little cease to linger,
chipping at my soul,
with every little singer,

i rest my head in exhaustion,
i further cannot keep,
can i bear to resist eruption?
minds not as strong and elite,

as one in monotonous dole,
being hidden from beauty or joy,
yet is this not a godgiven role?
by which myself i destroy?

" lift your head!" bellow many i hear,
for my rest cannot soothe what i am,
o must i emerge from dear sphere?
o this world from which i ran!

and yet i know i must continue,
for my place in the world must go on,
must i follow each road and avenue?
perhaps not, am i from else withdrwn?