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  • Ann Zuccardy

Anxiety

Painting by Edvard Munch, Public Domain, Via Wikimedia Commons


Words by Ann Zuccardy


She’s leading the queue, but the zombified masses can’t see her grief. She does not care to reveal her ennui, paralysis, or hopelessness.


No, that would simply not do.


She wears the colorful hat in a sea of black and gray so she must be the leader, but her face speaks of nausea. She doesn’t want this role anymore, but she knows not what to do, so she shuffles ahead. She may throw up so she raises her hand to her mouth…just in case.


This place is desolate.

If only they’d turn to the glorious sunset behind them.


They follow her bobbing hat above the crowd. They remember it was once brighter. It’s not so bright after decades of use, but its blandness is all they know. They know not that spicy color is never lost.


If only they’d turn to the glorious sunset behind them.


They are mourning, but what? They have no idea, but they trust her. They always have. Dressed in formal garb, they are not attending a funeral, but they have just come from church. God is serious business. The only man with a face rolls his eyes and smirks. Hellfire and brimstone amuse him.


If only they’d turn to the glorious sunset behind them.


The smirking man knows this woman. He wants to reach out and offer comfort, but he is paralyzed too.


If only they’d turn to the glorious sunset behind them, but statues cannot move.


Meanwhile life goes on it as it always has. The ships

come and go,

come and go,

come and go,

carrying the goods the statues hungrily consume.


They are aliens in the hustling bustling city now fading into the dusk,


It’s much too complicated to explain amorphous anxiety in the void.


If only they’d turn to the glorious sunset behind them.

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