Is it the visage staring at us form the reflection,
the one over our shoulder?
Or the shard of cold from the unseen?
Is it the disgust of old deeds lost?
Or the worries of action yet to pass?
Is it the insubstantial in the dark?
Or anticipated violence,
still to embark?
Is it the black crows,
loud and raucous?
Or the young ones,
socially orchestrated chorus?
Is it the corpse within the cupboard?
Or the inevitable, shaming, finding out?
Is it the daemon pain of old wounds healed?
Or the blade set ready to slowly deal?
Is it the ghosts of what was, is or still to be?
Or the combination three that most frightens thee?