Fear is like a stubborn spirit
convalescing with you in bed each night
It tastes like medicine on an old woman’s tongue
wearing gray haired regret who
goes underground to get away from
the responsibility of death's predicament
It is a scratched vinyl history of vices
A vagrant borrowing trouble
from the future of yoked embryos
A metastatic tumor of suffering
too sad to find a moment of solace under
the numbing effect of the sun

Written by Sara Fielder © Mar 2016