Summer 2003 - Volume 7 Number 3

I am afraid of being poor

You fear the darker nights

I tense before a stranger's door

You're terrified of heights


I dread the ache of lonely days

You're timid in a crowd

I'm phobic of a barren phase

You shrink from seeming loud


I fear the future, you the now

I compliments, you jeers

I the why and you the how

Your anger and my tears


Thy fears make me protective

And mine may make you strong

Though singly we're defective

Combined, we'll get along.


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