We flee to the bedroom, the study, the café;
hounded by foreseen fears.
We don the writer’s robes and gaze pagewards,
deep into ourselves:
upon the mind’s fraught fields in their untamed splendour.
A sea of grasses jostle and jeer, the oppressive mass
of ever-growing anxieties, until we beat them back
with a black ink scythe in hand.
We tread on ink-soaked soil where
once greenswards thrived,
horrifying and natural.
We stain page after page in perilous rhythms,
pining for release, for a tepid moment of control,
lest lasting legacy never flower
as our fears of failure do.