A man once said. And what he meant
Was that in times of horrid dread
We must cling to our hope eternal - but, if things seem hopeful,
Hope is dead.
A simple man may not be bothered by
A complex fear, but I have found
That though I hold the simple dear
I cannot help but clutch at straws, gasping for air, until
Safety is clear.
But even faith cannot commit my restless
Heart to peace. The terror seeps
From heart to head and head to knees
Then to my hands, which clench in fists, so long I know
They will not cease.
My Death approaches! See him marching in full dress,
His aim in sight, and as I try to run
I trip, I stumble, I alight -
In that escape which seems so far from where I am,
My Death takes flight.