The cutting fear that is anxiety.
|Away from tranquil strolls in the park,
far from the comfort of a front porch glider,
it arrives, an unwelcome visitor
long after the sun has set,
when the moon is a western crescent,
when Orion looks down from a winter sky.
This is the opportune time for panic,
a time for synchronized attacking,
a time which is my dark night of the soul.
Cold wraps around the heart like a shroud,
blood becomes an icy rivulet
flowing only to incite shivering.
It comprehends only its own selfish instincts,
nips with keen mandibles at three AM.
A ticking clock shatters
the silence like broken glass,
and cold, white plaster
closes in as if summoned by forces
from some other-worldly sarcophagus.
And so I lie awake shrouded and wind-latticed,
swelled with fluttering, suddenly nameless.
Certain things had moved in the night.
In this parody of life,
to flesh and bone
as discipline pleads yet is ignored.