Panic’s on the prowl and I’m about to cower;
surely my sanctuary is a strong tower!
There ample assurance abides to meet my need;
there relief returns, from dysfunction I am freed.
Though maladies may threaten still I rest therein;
healing takes place and restoration can begin.
Like a landmark lighthouse, beacons define my path
while I probe for pointers preventing panic’s wrath.
To say my sanctuary is a place of rest
that’s understatement, hyperbole’s arrest.
When I’m feasting on fame and fortune’s Porterhouse,
I’m inclined to forget, am I woman or mouse?
When success has supplanted signs of a shoo-in,
in my tower, I still ponder risks of ruin.
My sanctuary saves me, mostly from my self;
He stops my shovel’s dig, backfills the dreaded delf.
*******
August 18, 2020
Silent One: Sanctuary Poetry Contest (couplets)
Author's Notes: a delf is a mine, a quarry, a hole, or a grave.
Categories:
backfills, 11th grade, angst, grave,
Form: Couplet