A fear, you say, is in me.
And you see it?
What sounds does this character make? I may recognize his creeks and low moans, his shadowy groans
What do his eyes reflect? Sometimes in the mirror I may detect, the pains of defeat, wincing askance and flicker the jumping dance to avoid confrontation
I want to know, because I do detect him also, I believe, but not an honest man is he, not a holy bone in him let alone any truth, for he must be made wholly of the lie
I see his insane sly little deeds that thwart me, ever I get close to my own ends
I often look at mine own hands, bloodstained. With that sanguine drip, merrily and madly I look about for the slicer of these overplump and haughty veins, for I know it is his jolly laughter that sounds and rebounds in my skull, left to right echoing faceless down a winding hall. It is his joy that drowns out my own weeping cries for reason as to this crime -one I commit seemingly against my own self, my own will- a crime of passion.
Yes fear, that devil. The faceless man, anonymous nose in the paper at every train station stop from here to wherever next my stomach drags these tired feet upon more steps, to the next ticket, and outward, somewhere, into diaspora of desert soul, dry and cracked lips like baked griddle cakes.
Parched for brave truth. Parched for rain across the cracks of desert, for greasy speed along the rails. Dying for direction despite the one way ticket through the straight and narrow. Be it death, I’ll take her! But only in choice! A barreling beast into a wild ball of fire–yes, a burning!
How else is fear conquered but by flame?