Amorphous dread is my Achilles’ heel.
It weakens like I’m cut and lately bled,
distracted by unease I can’t conceal:
amorphous dread.

I don’t complain – no hopes of mine are dead.
In most respects I’m living my ideal
existence, and no peril looms ahead.

But formless fear is weaving an appeal.
Anxiety’s a floss-strong length of thread,
and nothing fully soothes me when I feel
amorphous dread.

(Roundel)