What is this thing called fear?
Which complicates the world,
serves little purpose even when
a danger nearby lurks. Why do
we fear so much, instinctive
and inbred, when dangers will
be better done, where fear is
not at work? And yet we are
hard-wired, to viscerally react,
as if the lion was waiting,
when nothing's truly there.
No doubt in aeons past, it
saved us from ourselves, but
calmness held with courage
will best meet any threat.
These demons of the mind
haunt every jungled thought,
and walk on padded feet
through days and nights
distraught, refusing all the
pleas, ignoring all the calls,
to sleep in patient caution,
till danger truly forms.
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