In mortal terror, the soul cries of an unspeakable fate.
The body knows, feels the toll of the future before it’s shown.
The mind bucks at the strain of being unable to articulate…
it’s coming.
We freeze.
Still, here we are grappling with flesh and blood, swallowing silent the soul-deep fear.
It’s coming up from the depths the thing that will rob us of breath.
Laugh, cry, break — it all ends the same.
Unless.
Unless, the focus shifts from what’s coming to what’s here.
notthestateofmyhouse 