There is a static to the air tonight;
electric, like muscles pulled taut
alkaline-fresh wounds from a recent fight.
Who was it though that could have fought?
Has the air fought the clouds for naught?
Or a source never to be made clear,
some sharp edge swung but never caught…
This possibility is my fear.

Without the sun to burn away my plight
the night rises to plunder thoughts,
raising swords, shooting guns, causing a fright
and I forget all I was taught;
clouded sails in my mind, distraught.
Wind and fire torture them severe
and such will be my final lot…
This possibility is my fear.

Senses lost to a nightmarish delight,
one means to an end my heart sought
while the rest of the body fills with spite
throwing away what gains I’ve bought
to harvest the pittance time wrought
as angry as a failed pioneer
with no use for the tools they brought…
This possibility is my fear.

Though all I’ve done is all I ought
an air of tension is growing near;
could all I am end up forgot?
This possibility is my fear.