It’s gonna drag you to the gallows
on a cold night in November.
It’s gonna raise the knife above you,
chase you down with dogs and guns.
It’s gonna step on your throat, laughing,
it’s gonna hear your strangled cry;
fear will kill you,
sure as the morning light.
The Grinning Reaper.
Never fought a greater enemy.
Never felt a killing blow,
like the knees turning to water
and the stomach start to sour.
It’s as if you’ve known no courage,
no strength, or victory;
fear is the smiling thief
that relieves you of your soul,
just before the battle begins.
Turn to face the bastard, finally;
never really there at all,
but a ghost,
a wraith,
a vampire,
tucked away in psychic shadows.
Draw him out
with situations
that breed fear,
purely for the purpose
of crushing it out.
The dark shame
that stains the soul,
will brighten.
Fear is an inky black,
bone-fingered grip
that tries to hold on,
but we are more than conquerors,
in the light
and in the dark;
ceaseless.
HG -2017
