I do not fear the darkened night,

nor howling winds that I can’t fight,

Not monsters creeping, claw and tooth,

But I do fear whispered lies disguised as truth.

It’s not the storm or ghostly hall,

not failure’s voice, not duty’s call.

Not sorrow’s weight, nor time’s embrace,

nor fate’s cold hand upon my face.

But deeper still, a gloom it grows,

a thing unknown that no one knows.

It grips my chest, it steals my breath—

the nameless dread, the fear of death.

Not death itself, but fear’s own name,

its winding shape, its twisting game.

To fear the fear, to flinch, to run,

to feel its grasp when there is none.

For fear’s no beast that we can fight,

no single form, no shape in sight.

It lives in thoughts, in ifs and whens,

in might-have-beens and never-ends.

And so I stand, though weak, though small,

I face the fear that built this wall.

For fearing fear will forge its chains—

I will fight the fight, whilst courage remains.