Thy One Fear Is . . . (No.13)

There is nothing else to know.

But to dread that day.

Some will say, it’s just a day.

Yet, why are so many fascinated by that day.

What is there so much, care, in kindness of that day, when so much can happen to anyone, on that day!

Really in mind of it all, it comes in so of it.

It happens just so is it of it.

It’s just a day.

That’s all.

Yet, why does it hold so tight, it’s chocking at times.

To try in ways to stray from those that, make this day . . . this number, an honorable toll to have.

It’s a lie, covered in blood and madness, that’s all what this day is.

Why can’t others see it?

Why must they give joyful cries, when they should have, run, run to the hills and never look back?

Why can’t they?

A fearful day is all what it is, why they can’t see it.

With nothing else, but a blade is thick and strife.

In nothing, it’s a day . . . a rueful that will end all, much more than left for dead.

End it, before it ends everyone else.