Faintly appearing like Riders of the Apocalypse. Early. Distant at first, then close, so close.
Growing in intensity. Relentless. There will be no more sleep.
You fight. It's too late. Cold fear grips. You are scared.
Of what?
The Gremlins of possibility and probability.
Powerful beyond the reality which returns with the light of morning.
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This poem was written when I was going through a crisis and it had so overwhelmed me I couldn't sleep. For me it was a prelude to new personal growth. So I dedicate this poem to anybody reading this who is suffering from a crisis point in their lives and wish them well for a post crisis future.
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