Hello fear, my old friend.
You’ve been quiet so long.
It’s strange to see you again.
Last night, you gripped my body
so that I couldn’t move in my bed,
only watch brutal scenes in my head.
So they may ensue, these brutal scenes.
Bearing impunity and self-righteousness,
they don their armor, flourish their swords.
And the life I know vanishes, memories razed,
fear mutated into raw loathing and contempt,
igniting animus, portending death and despair.
The warrior in her awakens and readies her sword,
consumed by the infectious, hate-mongering fear.
Black, serrated, suffocating, hot, predatory energy.
And then the wind wafts at her back, pulsating, gentle.
Her soul flooded with fear, hate; now love; tears surge.
‘What shall
you choose, child? What path shall be
yours?’
‘I desire
so the golden path, the one my soul knows as true!’
Gazing down the other path, ‘But
there, I stand frightful.’
The wind blows, ‘Yes,
there you stand fearsome, fright full.’
Her warrior is enraged at wind’s warning that she can fall
prey
to fear, that her soul could be infected with the hate, putrefy.
‘How dare
you?!’ she screams. ‘I stand against them, for truth!’
‘My dear
one, so too do they.’ The
wind turns her head to glimpse
the masses, writhing in anguish, consumed and tormented by fear.
‘There,
see,’ it points. ‘There you are among them, led by your
fear.’
Blowing gently, lifting fear from her heart, ‘What path shall be yours?’
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