He is a piece of art,
of visible colors, lines, curves on a canvas,
a mosaic for all too see--
and yet he hides himself in a Picasso painting.
He takes love and drains it dry
******* in the souls of hapless saps,
and not caring.
He has no shackles that bind him to a corner,
his power limitless,
unrestricted,
crushing and more destructive than all of the surges of Poseidon's seas combined.
He watches me,
from afar, upfront,
making sure I glimpse him every now and then
but my mind tries to fool me otherwise.
He is...
fear....

sweeping and carrying me off my feet,
into the sky,
bewildering and bothering.
And he reigns over me,
his omnipotent power lying
there
(this the most blatant truth I can't obscure)
in the fact I can't let him go.