Fragility of living, and the fear of not.

Startled in my night by bellows
below an open window. Thrust
into wakefulness by hollers
of petty outrage, I fear the
unknown. Unsettled by a stranger's
rage; inconsequential, temporary.
Disquieted now, in my night,
fear subsiding from the immediate.
Fragility is the thing, the
common beat behind
memories of past moments;
past hauntings. Knowing we are
ever as delicate as the dust
on a moth's wings.