The Horror of Realization

Colin Butler


She asks herself, “What is gone,
That as yet has brought this insatiable fear?”
Even the dead leaves fallen from the trees remain still
A quant, quiet, content night with a Book
Usurped by a fictitious fantasy, as she sits
Every sound a mere whisper, every whisper a scream


Wind whistling through the pane, a scream
She says, “Is not all happiness gone?”
Cowering, quivering, quietly, she sits
Unknown, unnamed, pervading stench of fear
Flung from the pages…The Book
Rests on her soft legs, still


Why is it that all she is is still?
When all she yearns to do is mercilessly scream
And let her hysteric words fall upon the pages of the book
Maybe, then, will this foreboding aura be gone
Supplemented with desire, not more fear
She flung the source like a ticking bomb, yet still she sits


Now, resting upon the mantle, it sits
And though it moves not it remains not still
Flowing from its pages words to breed fear
Ages of men whom trusted, loved the book, scream
For where has the Savior been, now that he is gone?
Feverishly, frantically, she searches through the pages of the book


“As I walk through the valley” reads the book
“Of the shadow of death,” She said aloud, no longer does she sit
“I shall fear no evil, for though art with me”…but the feeling faltered, gone.
Now she cannot remain still
Did Jesus ever scream?
Did he, too, fear?


What makes a human being decent, fear?
Such reads the book.
And if she goes to hell, will she scream?
Or will she merely sit
Through the fire and brimstone, remain still?
She asks herself…”What is gone?”


Fear is an immobilizer, and we are all still
When it is gone, move on, though leave the book
She’ll rewrite it as she sits and screams

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