Worth is that sickly anticipation
Of breathing through the night
Passing over deep shadows
Via semblance of truths
It is the urgency of escaping
From the haunted house
That rendered the once
Youthful and lovely
Old and veined
It is that sod ding intelligence
Of enjoying the serenity
Of the inner voice
Soft in its
Demands
Worth is nagging
Is disturbing
As doomsday
Is the danger
Of drowning
In spilled thoughts
It is freeing from
The clock of fear
And getting caught
In the strangeness
Of twists & turns
Delighting in
Their hurt
And joy
Needing
Feeling
Aston kamunde 