The black blade of fear hangs over my head.
Hanging by a thread,
I feel the tension and tense for the parting of strands.
No breeze to stir it, take it arcing away from my brow,
The crown of blood a must at some point unknown.
Where did it come from,
Why can’t I move?
No reason to stay but the chair is home,
A different aspect would be like an abyss.
The fear freezes but comfort in knowledge,
Who can say whether different is not worse?
Comfort in familiarity,
No contempt, just dread.
a foray back into writing 