Holding the Hand of Fear
by Tiffany L. Schrade
I feel it there, in it's all consuming chaos, knocking me from my equilibrium; coaxing an opaque haze over what I'd known to be true.
This fear, insidious enough to betray
my wholeness; this oneness;
convince me of separation.
Is it deflected, to live in ignorant squalor,
only to resurface more fiercely,
blindsiding its prey?
Does it extend to project, in order to maintain
a distance from what we know to be ours,
but cannot and will not accept?
Should it whisper in the ear to be
scapegoated, placing false evidence on
the unsuspecting, the undeserved?
I told her, "do not be afraid," in a
Yet I know that journey is hers,
and hers alone.
I had my own.
And as I sat with it,
I knew fear was taking my hand and
unwittingly leading me down its path.
Doing simply, what it does.
Instead I pulled and guided fear
towards my future, to show it the
beauty that lies ahead.
But when I looked back,
my hand was empty.
This fear, was an apparition.
That fear was a choice, all along.