Fear is my governess.
A muted crone dressed in black,
she stills her icy hand in mine
as we amble ‘round the world.
Shunning her in company,
for her presence beckons shame;
I reach for warmer hands than mine,
but swiftly crave hers back again.
Too old am I to cling to skirts
whose seams are stitched with dread!
Their austere folds lend comfort
to the costume of my nature.
A finer tutor may be found,
but fidelity joins our even will.
Studious, I remain enthralled,
for Fear – my chronic teacher.
Fear is My Governess
