Out of turn.

When the world turns out of turn,  
          it makes my heart sink,
and I am forced to retire in con­fu­sion. 

Most times I am heart­sick! 
          Worn and weary.

Yet I am hun­gry for the day!

Hun­gry for days.

For the days when grief was easy … 
          some­thing to chat about in hushed and sim­ple tones.

Where did grief go
          when time turned inward?

Did my heart stop
          when my hope died … 
Or was that sim­ply the sound of less­er souls 
          hop­ing for some­thing more in this life 
than mis­ery?

I won­der –

Are the leav­ings of hope
           made worse for the wear? 

Does its absence look like thun­der? 
          Or does its com­fort feel like rain … 

Sad refrain.
Sung out of tune,
and out of turn.