a strange sense of foreboding

Poetry of Beauty

i confess
that sometimes
i am almost consumed
by a strange sense
of foreboding
that arrives
like a shroud
and threatens 
to haunt me
and terrify me to death.

and then i remember
to look closer
and i see
that the shroud of fear
is actually
an old sheet
dragged along
from the past,
no more than
a memory.

as i watch,
the sheet itself
falls to the ground
in a crumpled heap
and i am returned to
this moment
free of all haunting
and foreboding.

everything that is not
is an illusion.
Swimming Pool copy

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