It is for anxiety to be born in a closet.
It is there in the darkness
That wounding fear builds
And seeks to turn the knob,
Making its way into my chamber.

And yet for me, aware of its scandal and measure,
I seek not to wait for its delicate creeping.

I seek not to rest while its slinks from its crypt.

I seek not to ignore its bared teeth wrapped in snarl.

I seek only in prayer that my legs would be swift
To be waiting at the door when it arrives,
E’en more so to open it and bid it due welcome.

But, ah, to my surprise when the door I did open
To welcome my hungry visitor,
I was found set afoot upon my very front porch
Gazing into the sunrise of a new day.