Fear finds you at night.
It rushes under your skin
and makes its way towards your heart
where it constricts,
slowly strengthening its grip
like a thread tied around a finger-
pulling, making it ache
until the finger pulsates.
The tip, increasing in size,
So the heart
caught in fear
pounds upon the door of sleep
and awakens you, the dreamer
who, finding yourself cold and wet,
must now decide whether or not to rise.
You must decide
whether you should try to rest in a dream where fear waits outside the gates of sleep
or awake to a nightmare
or, perhaps, awake to life.
You get up-coffee, face, teeth, dress.
You walk outside into a gray October morning,
quiet-but for the crickets chirping, singing their desperate song,
hoping that if their voices continue so too will they
or, if the song is beautiful enough, at least the memory of them will remain.
You see that the trees are losing their leaves
and you catch sight of one golden maple leaf
floating to the ground,
the curtain closing upon its final act.
You listen and -in the silence of the early morning-
you hear it land.
You feel the closure
that comes from hearing a last breath,
that comes from bearing witness to one reach his final resting place.
And you feel strong.
You are alive.