The Slow Death of Fears

Fears like old newspapers
left in the rain,
print, headlines, bleached by exposure,
ink leaching away in the rain,
paper becoming brittle, left behind,
a new story begun, the old left behind
to be what it deserves to be:
composte, fuel to feed the new
you.

About this poem

Fears die slowly. It’s worth the wait, worth the work.

Tom