Anxious for mercy

My heart pounds and I have no peace. I fetch my bible to call my anxiety to cease. I lay in bed to write, pondering the good samaratian. I am the wounded on the side of the road, too beat up to tell my story, hidden in darkness and rags. Destroyed by myself, the devil the thief hidden in all the things I loved. With clouded vision I laid on the road. I called out for help, but I was in denial. Mercy was the only thing I could hope for, elusively out of sight. The sand was in my eyes and it needed to be washed out. That's the kind of pain you know will hurt like hell, but it's the only way to see again. Mercy was the only thing on my mind.