Anxiety feel like breathless
pressure in the chest,a fluttering suddely of crazed
birds. Anxiety morphs
into dread, shakes the bars
of its cell for help.
Low charcoal clouds
move in, park just above
the head, which wants
to love hope but can't.
Anxiety's gaze wants
to weld itself to a dark pit,
a kind of sick security.
But it is nothing, anxiety
is nothing compared to what
the tortured imprisoned,
the constantly bombed and
displaced, must feel always,
even as they sleep, if they sleep.
hans ostrom 2024
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