My fears are not fears,
they are more like people.
And coffee mugs.
Stains on a wall
that grow up the ceiling,
through to the clouds.
A tree stuck in the smoke-room
of some busy airport -
planes flying over,
ash setting in.
My fears, my dogs,
they bite you,
they scrape my neck,
they come in hordes,
sit on command -
always loyal,
never mine.
