Every choice is round
Like an inkling of a portal;
We trust doors to not devour us.
I tremble anyway.
You may not understand fear.
However . . .
I who once felt nothing
Believe I comprehend most stoically
How being afraid of something
–My ringing nerves.
Without a steadying warmth to harbor
Or beauty to Pulsate through me
Anxiety is merely a swarm of asphyxiation
In those dreams
When unseen things chase after
Even the cleverest traces across neurons
Won’t awaken the past . . .
The fore-bearing moments lay inward.
Time is running out. Flow.