A Tempest of Fear

Fear is but a petty thing, but consumes all within its seething rage,

All twists and turns of a broken road to drive all to the deranged,

Pity--hallowed pity-- through darkness binds the weak,

To cry alone, on a marbled stone; pale faced and meek,

Divine beings; whom strolled alone, and heeded not their calls,

And in the breaking dawn, would they, to moonlight then fall,

Twists the rays, and play the keys; the souls of a million now weep,

To toil and writhe in a dreamless dread, lulled by a doubtful sleep,

‘Fear not!’ cry they, but the wise crack heads have already fallen,

To fear no fear, is a wronged endeavor, all beings in existence to it now are crawling,

To what say the old wise man, or speak the innocence of a mere child,

In a dreamless sleep, in a darkened corner, would then fear sit there so calm and mild.