F-E-A-R, a whisper light, a breath,
So small a word, so close to silent death.
Just four brief letters, etched upon the air,
Yet why does it command a soul's despair?
It wraps its tendrils, unseen, cold, and deep,
While reason stumbles, and the brave hearts weep.
A sudden tremor, where courage used to be,
It takes control, and binds the will to flee.
It conjures shadows from the brightest day,
And paints the monster in a common way.
Its power isn't in its whispered name,
But in the ancient, universal flame
Of self-preservation, twisted, turned astray,
From watchful instinct to a dark dismay.
It taps the unknown, the vulnerable part,
And drills an echo deep within the heart.
It is the 'what if', whispered in the night,
The 'what might be', that drains away the light.
The phantom limb of futures left unspun,
A battle lost before it's well begun.
It feeds on silence, doubt, and things untold,
A chilling story, centuries old.
Why does this brevity command the soul?
Why does this tremor make us lose control?
Perhaps its strength lies in our turning back,
In fearing to confront the coming track.
For in its face, if we but choose to stand,
We find it's merely dust within the hand—
A fragile construct, built of our own dread,
Unrealized until the word is dead.
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Author:
Friendship (
Offline) - Published: November 28th, 2025 05:08
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 2
Offline)
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