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Rated: 13+ · Poetry · Emotional · #2205976
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,
talons fasten
to flesh and bone
as discipline pleads yet is ignored.

26 Lines
Writer’s Cramp
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2205976