This Fear

This fear
somehow regenerates itself
growing stronger, day by day
bleeding so much strength away
that weakness reigns supreme
within a being

It's been called no more
than just illusion
yet the might of this illusion
has been known to kill
for it builds itself
into a gross reality
feeding on all blind belief
affecting heart
obliterating soul

Yet it gathers round
until its density becomes
too much for one to bear alone
and then it strikes
venomous, the fluid
then projected from the fangs

until one night, within the deep
toxicity implodes upon itself
refusing to be used
for something else
but settling right there inside
one form, now so abused
within this amplitude of fear
that all it says and does
becomes no more
than their own death
forever drawing near

If only they would seek beyond
they might escape the days and nights
of their own, pre-planned demise
and rise into a sense of utter being

How is it that they never found?
their own desire to be the charm
that draws desirousness to them
How is it that they never knew
this touch of love so true?

It's like that one variety of love
defined and pre-composed
that turns so easily
into an opposition
and splits itself along the way
becoming rage and hatred
that despoil every day

as deep within the night
this fear regenerates itself again
unevolved and just the same
leading to no more
that just another day of pain
preceding their release
to lighter realms. . .


Copyright© 2000 Michaelette L. Romano
All Rights Reserved
Take me home . . .