21 August 2013


Inside, a rotting, lurking in shadows
of darkened thought. Confidence
takes a powder and all that remains
are the knock-kneed jitters of
these failing nerves. Seldom brought
out to play; never wandering past
nose’s end. The journey of a thousand miles
ceases before that first step lands.
Needing a leap of faith
to allow flight to commence.
Waiting for fear to subside.
And yet, inside, a rotting.

© JPW 2013


  1. Fear. I know it to be the opposite of love. It debilitates, doesn't it? Your poem illustrates the details of its effects.

  2. I appreciate your insight, Kim! Thank you.


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