Is momentous,

An opus of the mind.

By its own merit,

It is a pervasive voice,


But drenched in insincerity.

It is a weighty imbalance

To drag through life.

It makes a distortion of reality,

Of how things seem to be,



It warps the senses.

Fear is also a dredge,

Which scoops up then slops

The muds of emotion

At your feet,

This enables you in your slip.


It is also Arctic.

Therefore it chills you to your core,

It will freeze any and everyone of us,


The shiver is named dred.

Fear inhibits, inhabits

And incapacitates.


Fear fosters dred.

It encourages, it promotes.

Dred of the future,

Which is,

The home of the unknown.

It is an unsavory out look.

It seasons mortification.


Fear is a lock

Which is impossible to pick.

And as a prisoner of fear,

You are held in the grip of stasis.

The immovable stake

Which pins you down,
Like a boot on your grounded throat,

Head down and choking,

It’s all consuming.


Fear is inescapable.

It is clock work driven

Because it is wound up.

It is under tention.

It will not escape,

Your undivided attention.

It belongs to the tortured

Tick of time,

The life measurements

Of the ultimate undetectable.

Fear dreds this universal equation.

It is the ear worm

That is repeatedly asking

How much longer have you got?

(c) 2018 Christopher Thompson

All rights reserved

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