I am afraid,

not of life or of opening

myself up, perhaps even to ridicule,

God knows I’ve experienced

enough of that, more than I care for,

probably less than I deserve;

I’m not scared of that for

if you’re not terrified of death

how can you truly feel alive?

 

I am troubled,

by all that I am,

the insanity in the letters,

the voices whispering gently

that this word not that word,

not any word

but them all, is to be captured,

I am frightened that

it will one day end,

like a tumbleweed

suddenly finding no purpose

in scratching the surface

of a dusty path

once the wind peters out

to nothing,

I am afraid that

once that happens,

that in the end

it won’t have mattered a

single jot, foul or speck,

I worry because all is dust in

 

the end.

 

Ian D. Hall 2016.