fear,
   woe my depressions, woe are the scary thoughts in my
dark. Alive are the witches, the goblins the eyes
of Satan. I sleep warily, tossing,
visions between reality and fantasy, never
dropping.
Then and now I writhe
caught in thorn laden forests,
between trees that reach down shapes
of dark and clowns.
I sit directly within the growing
gloom and call them,
now to bring it on.
bring it on.