[This was written as a contribution to ‘Poeticaphobia’ at dVerse Poets Pub, hosted this week by our friend Stuart McPherson, on the subject of fear and phobias!]

The fear of death, arachnophobia
the fear of falling off the edge
of life, the threatening spectre
only you, left on your own to hedge
the demons dancing on your shoulder
weighed down by stomach muscle spasm
at sight of such amazing speed
of hairy beast so very small; that chasm
into which you fall, that’s bottomless,
and will never have a safety net
to rest you from eternity of black
and no way back, drowning, wet,
unprotected from the howling wind
sent by a solar storm, whose heat explodes,
our planet earth, a tiny speck of dust
for which all life, both great and small implodes.

And yet, we found our art and came to be
so fearful of the Gods, whom we revere
just so as to fool ourselves that we
will always have control and never fear
– that fear that drives us out of dread, and
makes us rise from bed each day
as slaves, not masters, with disabled minds
for which a simple beauty once held sway.

© 2012 John Anstie

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