Someone bold,
a person without fear,
is only a mortal on the brim of survival.
Fear itself,
a possible crude image,
or the disappearance of one.
Here is a fear.
The living being inside you,
shows in the mirror,
it smirks without any expression from yourself.
Seconds run backwards,
warmth runs cold and coldness is incinerated.
The witching hour,
beholds a second for peace to live,
but no time for a second,
no such thing.
A blanket capes the sky,
all which need light,
begin it's decay.
Or the consumption of each mirrored image,
just yells with inability to take back it's strict wish.
For wrathing marrow in the living,
walks longer than the creature,
who doesn't smile in the mirror.
