Fear Is What Keeps Me From You

I do not really understand what I am afraid of.
Fear is what keeps me from you.
My lack of mercy is in direct correlation to the rain-gauge of my terror.

You and I.
We are the terror(ists).

The others are convenient scapegoats for us to drape our unicolor fear-coats on.

There is nothing wrong with being afraid, they tell me.
A healthy fear is good, they say.
Security is equal to safety, I’m told.
I am an unkind, fearful man in a society of unkind, fearful people.

Ancient words rebound in my intolerant head.
Perfect love casts out fear.
I am not perfect and I can be so unloving.

And yet you have been kind to me.
And you
have not been afraid of me.

And sometimes,
on days when the wind comes softly through the laundry room window and
caresses my cheek as I fold your warm clothes,
I have returned the favor.

In that circle is my hope and the balm for a trembling humanity.


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