Can't say he's ever been scared
By thinking he saw a ghost
Or a shaggy, clawed monster,
Although he's been petrified
By a menacing deadline,
An inky black police car,
An enormous past-due bill.
A real ghost, ethereal
But substantial, convincing,
Would be such a great relief,
Making all the scary things
Cramming grim reality
Between awareness and death
Seem mercifully unreal.
"If you flourish by your wits,
What could be more therapeutic
Than trying to scare yourself
Out of them?" Silly question.
If you'll perish by your wits,
There might be some therapy
In losing them, true enough.
But he's the sort knows too well,
Flourishing or perishing,
His wits themselves are the worst,
Ghastliest shades of terror
He's ever experienced.
They whisper he must perish
As they shriek he must flourish.
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