Restless

What recourse is left for a wounded soul?

A heart that wanders with a begging bowl,

With eyes that seek a corner warm,

A cave like the one these eyelids form,

No waves lap upon the restless shoal.

How do I cosset this troubled mind?

The kennel of peace, it refuses to find,

At every passing thought, it barks,

Its own sorry acreage it marks,

But then begins to snap, at its own behind.

Under tortured moon, the heart does sail,

With beholden taunts, the winds assail,

It seeks every horizon in sight,

Surrounded by sea, night after night,

But where find the water, that fills this pail?

What crumbs of blossoms, the world can dole?

When, to burn the forest, there be enough coal,

There's only so much that Hope can knock,

Upon a door that Fate has locked,

Then what recourse is left for a wounded soul?