What is this thing called fear?

Which complicates the world,

serves little purpose even when

a danger nearby lurks. Why do

we fear so much, instinctive

and inbred, when dangers will

be better done, where fear is

not at work? And yet we are

hard-wired, to viscerally react,

as if the lion was waiting,

when nothing’s truly there.

No doubt in aeons past, it

saved us from ourselves, but

calmness held with courage

will best meet any threat.

These demons of the mind

haunt every jungled thought,

and walk on padded feet

through days and nights

distraught, refusing all the

pleas, ignoring all the calls,

to sleep in patient caution,

till danger truly forms.

About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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