Poetry

Thrum

My heart is racing,

it’s whirring,

a whirligig of flesh mechanics

all turning a deaf ear

to my will.

The sensible noggin

commanding my body to see reason

searching through every cause

and evening the pH.

It doesn’t work.

Oxygen helps, it’s true. So does quiet.

The dark.

But it’s your eyes

seeking, calm

that settle it.