Poetry: #20 The Hidden Fear
And my thoughts after revisiting the words
The Hidden Fear
Catching every thought, gone into madness in the seconds slept Dawn approaches and yet slumber falls much like a flower blooming in the winter air Cold devastator, eyes grown shut until every inch is wilted Harboring the terrors of yesterday as seen by imagination but are they really the nightmares? Considerations, like thoughts gone while trying to unravel the past’s mysteries Nothing like a release with a person once loved especially with the visceral smell of their air Cancelling all plans, the mind can drive even the most sure among us insane Is it really the mind that controls us or are we predestined to break what makes us fair? Is reality a euphemism for breaking of the bonds we hold dear? Can the last of our thoughts really be an attempt to smear? The dark ebbing and flowing at the thought of fear… It can smell what makes us drenched in sweat and what brings out the worst in our words and thoughts and actions and there is naught but one thing we can do. Accept it.
What are your thoughts on this poem?
My Thoughts & Take Away
This is a poem from Hesitate and Grasp, written in December of 2020. It is about death, or rather, the last moments leading up to it. Death can come in many ways and the poem alludes to a few. How we handle death, what happens during the process; that is hard for us to imagine. It is often as torturous as the hardest life lived for many of us, yet we all know it comes. It beckons. It is a fear we hide from ourselves and our loved ones, but a fear nonetheless. How we respond to that fear when the time comes is indicative of who we are.
2020 was a year of a lot of pain and suffering, and a lot of hate came through the various mediums to our doors and rooms and thoughts. I could not imagine holding on to such hate to the end of my days, to the slander and nightmares, it seems like a waste during a time of transition. Like the dawn of something new, a flower blooms, life goes on and when we pass, we pass into something else entirely. To hold on to the past, instead of letting it become history, is to hold on to what one has been and not what one can become.
I hear another poem is coming every Saturday!