Dearest Summoner,
Something scary comes into being when the mind becomes tired and surrenders to the fear that appears too grim. When it starts seeing through eyes anxious, deeming the reality to be an opposition coming to warn it;
When it becomes a creature skeptic,
desperate to be freed,
but having no place that welcomes it.
When it finds no one caring to share the dangers grown, no protectors preventing incoming foul, only its lonesome existence, that must bring the dark merciless skies, floating above its head, to flame down its temper, and be dragged on the ground.
When left alone for too long,
It runs far, far and wild,
its gait interrupted by relapsing pain,
but it doesn’t stop to be tormented
lest the caged presence makes a gain.
To liberate the fear, to let it run till the hurricane clears, is not viable still, for it falls easily in traps of the world, for it only recognizes its own blood when distrust sows seed of discomfort.
A scared creature has eyes hungry,
mimicking movement to deceive the enemy,
but it wants no food to feed the soul,
the chasm in it rides to feed its own.
When the bulging black iris searching the night finds no cure, its deepening appetite cries towards the skies full of innocents, whose screams mirror the fear, but their cause to fight the familiar lure.
When the mind searches for fear,
it searches near in the swamps, day and night,
while playing mournful violin
repeating every line,
Till every nook and cranny lay trashed with the intent to come up with hands full of grime, till the sown coiling seeds sprout to be harvested when stink cannot be found above ground.
It stands at attention to leap at every day,
at every missed word,
to give a span of attention
to all that it finds unkind, unjust.
The day goes by fulfilling a prophecy made in favour of those ruling empires of dust, every little fear adds a crumble of dirt, every rage fills a crack in the wall, every tremble makes a tree fall to the ground, and every doubt makes the sky hide behind the clouds.
There’s no mystery in the way that it moves,
hurried and humped,
to become a hero in a land
where villains can be born with a single scathing glance.
It walks afraid, leaving its piercing gaze to be tied, believing every draped white lie, forming an army of thoughts that only wither form, and die. Yet, walks it still, for it must.
The mind, when rampant,
loses to none,
its will in the fear is strong
even as weakness sits at the crown to govern.
It fights to death, even when its weapons lay on the ground covered in rust. For it knows not how else to be, a soldier of war takes up hands to fight for thee, even if the fight may be against a comrade of its own, it only knows how to fight with teeth and stone.
It clashes its armour
with anyone that comes to relish it
in an embrace kind, alas, it only ever accepts dread
to fuel its very same mistakes known as crime.
In every corner of your mind, behind a closed door fear shines, a gem for a dragon with a liking to shine, a captor’s possession, the loot regarded as a price for the pirates who hunger even for a dime.
There exists only a way
to let the warrior rest
when the war happens only in the head,
to cradle the fear despite its thrashing,
And hear it scream all its early warnings, to not run at its beckoning lest its beckons be only illusions of a grand scheme, to enter the caves built in darkness, and a burn a lamp light, not fight with the occupant, be solely an accomplice in their lost cries.
Only when the grip of resolution
to protect oneself is found loosened,
does the one carrying the masterfully crafted blade
become merciful and bend;
Only with a need to be safe in an enveloped chaos does it become depraved and lose control, its only wish to be prepared for a battle before it strikes with fists on the door, to not lose its life before it could be fought for.
Only with patience,
that follows behind the footsteps of compassion,
can one ever attempt
to befriend a scared reptile,
For the wounded only ever opens its wounds to the one who can heal without making cruel tries, not to the one who can impart it without a second thought of any kind, even if it comes from a sword with justice engraved on the inside.
For fear,
and for the mind where it dwells,
you must not chase behind it,
but build a place for it to rest.
No weapons taken against one dressed in tonnes from head to toe, only a gentle hand ready to undress when it comes home to end the show. With little compassion, the trust will grow, to let you be its guide without letting its ravaging teeth show.
Till then,
a battle mind fights one,
and another is fought by you.
It drenches in sweat crafting battles out of dust that were long due, you stand unshaken to hold it when the fight leaves its chest, hopefully without battering it black and blue.
Time after time,
you must run too,
not behind it, but beside it
to dress the cuts it gathers when wanting to be of use.
The battle is not between its illusions and your rationale, but between the one who wishes to prove its loyalty to its master, the unaware self, and the one who must show that its loyalty is well heeded but the dangers it ventures through to prove it must come to an end,
For it need not to be alone,
frightened in its den,
there exists love for it even when failure,
after a long waiting, strikes again.
So, let it speak, of what it sees and hears, of what the time says will come to pass in clear, of what it fears it cannot prevent, of what it desperately wishes to catch and burn in the purifying flame,
Of what keeps it awake in the silent night,
torturing it to become insane,
and then stand beside it carrying the truth
it doesn’t know how to bear and tame.
Grateful your mind will be, for it wishes not to be a fearful being itself, it is only a vow it took to preserve the sanctity of the others residing within oneself. But now the duty becomes yours.
The duty to untangle
the mind’s fear that only entails itself.
It fears that if the fear for those guarded was run dry,
it cannot be held dear despite how much it tried.
So fear it must, for others, and for itself, for big dips and glorious traverse, from sharp spears and unbecoming farce. So you must hold the fearful mind close, and closer still, for it to have one less fear, of being abandoned at not being fearful enough and locking every slip,
Of not striking at every and any action
to protect the one from whom it emerges at will,
of failing at its duty and succumbing
to the darkness where no one comes to visit.
Hold it close and closer still, take no enemy when enemy is made from creation, glare at those that tell you the absurdity of fear’s nature, for those without meaning in every step, who remain unaware that steps are not solely theirs to take, make the mistake of calling fear a menace.
For one willing, for a heart that desires one less killing,
fear is a child, stubborn and loving,
in whom if you find care, you become entangled
with a beauty that can only be found within.
Summon, dearest.