Dread Ends

But can it end in a mind
That breathes, that sniffs at the world,
That still tries to suss things out?

Can dread end and not the mind,
A pond calm in a high wind,
In rain, in snow storms? It can’t,

Not if it’s a thing with mass,
With waves, a thing made of waves.
Waves can’t not be churned by waves,

No more than a pond stays calm
Or could stay calm in high winds.
Rain and hail make their own waves,

And so does dread. With each splash
Of fright in front of the mind,
The mind stirs. It needs dread thoughts

To grow large, as ponds and lakes
Need rains and snows. Or do they?
Could there be a fund of calm

From dread that sank in the ground
Way back when, and is still there,
But is hushed now and can rise,

Seep through the flanks of the mind,
Slip with the thoughts in its depths
And make a well, a black source

Of dreams that spring from so deep
And clean a vent in the earth
That they pool, clear in the shade,

A shield glint in the green light,
Too well-hid for rain to reach,
Too small to be fanned by winds?

I’m on the hunt for that spring
Where dread serves thought cool and fresh
Calm that leaves no mark. Dread’s End.