Well is All

All is well. 

The uncertainties, the hopelessness, the blank pages of lined papers,
the voices echoing from the dark,
the hanging cloud of doom, the lump in the throat,
the wasted effort to get back on our feet.

All is well. 

Or so we try to think.
Like a sheening pearl beyond our grasp,
or a heart that beats and thumps and throbs
against the skin of love and lust.

Nothing is well.

That must be it.
Or no one has seen
the war and the famine,
the children dying: our love is losing.

So we trick the heart into thinking that perhaps, in a parallel world,

all is well.