Fears,
well crafted in the curdled underneath,
suckling on years of circumspection.
Dreams sequester in the wrinkle slowly creeping
on the well moisturized brow,
struggling to dissipate the "what if" perspiration.
Fears,
persuasive, that one can always
close the venetians,
slouch in the subdued plaid
scraps of the sun,
flip the incandescent bulb,
and continue reading.
Well... I don't think so.
