It is always the same thing
is it not -- always fear.
We twist and turn for it,
prey and pray for it,
dark hungry god of never-full belly.
Fear is the slow poison
never ebbing.
Fear is the cold steel
but always bleeding.
Fear is bondage and fetters
freely worn -- is it not?
Warm velvet comfort of it,
though - fear is the it we know.
Fear of not feeling fear,
walks between words
whispered fearfully;
coils around bellies.
The cure and the crave of it,
we hang on our gallows of it,
gibbous and ripe with it.
The it of all it-ness and woof
of all warp-ness,
this muse is the must of it
and how we distrust in it.
Fear is the far of this and
tis the near of that.
Alway the fear of this,
and still the fear of that.