Fear is the Frailty
The sounds around us
are ever changing, an infinity
of origins—some too loud,
others not loud enough. When
the tempo slows I hear gossamer
wings of sandhill skippers
feeding on the nectar of Spring
dandelions, solace in the soothing
embrace of Sister Sun.
I bask in the murmurs amongst
old-growth trees.
Our dialogues have dwindled
to redundant maxims, we never
see the same moon. Humanity
is living its own dread, fear
is the frailty we allow—cowering
to a parade of pissants seeking
sovereignty over our lives.
I have met most gods and
found them to be imaginary.
