Worry

Scarred by the past, in fear of the future,
a timid shuttlecock between I am
not here and I must go there, a feature
that ever dyes life as treacherous sham,

where, in an omnipresent tense presence,
the present is repetitiously shun.
All thought and feeling must be a penance
in obeisance to anxiety’s sun,

where, suckling on bottomless dread and whine,
life is weaned from simple joy to a maze
of intricate inhibitions that twine
and fill the now in untold deadly ways.

There, in permanent nowhere of not here,
sweet breath is entombed in bitter nadir.