by Writer from the Margin on September 30, 2016

In need of a foothold, Anxiety, fidgety,
drops to our feet, pecking the ground nervously. 
The earth trembles, the invisible clouds
cover the sun. Anxiety, wide winged, once
gnawed at the immortal liver of a god,
relentless; but our anxiety resembles
no other life forms. It’s not an eagle, noble;
nor are we gods, impoverished. Anxiety’s a child,
the homunculus in each of us, without content,
but never content, restless, in need of perch, preferring
the seed of even the smallest discontent to peace.


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