About Being Afraid

In this poem,

the air is pure,

so I can easily notice

these powerful jaws of fear

ravenously devouring 
the soft music 
of your untainted soul

and

the astonishing light 
of your gentle being

Where is the voice 
that should speak up?

Where is the saddened joy 
that wants to be expressed?

The coded dignity of your trembling hands

cruelly drowns your silence out

The quirky grace of your moist eyes

is callously loud and clear,

but here this poem ends

Penarth (taken yesterday, click on the image to enlarge it)

Listen to this.