Mettle

A ringing has begun inside my head that will not go away.
It's gradually clearer that it's something that is here to stay.
Peeling at my mind with a forceful gentle flaying, it's
a constant shallow scream that renders silence beyond saving.

Lessons in this life's complacency surely force me to see,
that we can only pave our streets with borrowed energy.
The line I thought by luck alone was fair and straight will twist,
bending toward a rule of ground that must constantly shift.

Unexpected instability, unseemingly abating,
will let me, when distraction of greater peace, appreciate
the serendipity that helps define to us our grief,
and ultimately grant us the source of our relief.
  (Relief it seems at times can become a two-way street.)

And should, in time, the situation see a new perspective,
I shall again experience the joys I thought I'd miss.
What would be a world without contrasts in this way?
Would we even know it as our empty laughter fades?
This is not to say that suffering we ought to strive for,
but its purpose as a standard for our joy ought to be pondered.