Worry loves all

Worries cease our thoughts in shackles to break beneath strain. Hands sweat, the heart palps, some perish, some live. This, another frugal whim and tempt to try and regain.

And when worry is but an ornament around the neck, a fed famine now less in width and in length, from it's victory beaten is given till the next, earned of gain and renewed in strength.

A coffin buriest trials like an errant friend, till error he errors once more. Escape from hiding finds no peace for long or collateral to appease it's decatent taste of it's favored whore.

None earthly is put into ground or thrown without to the seas. This disease of worry loves all, pardons none, nor myself, nor my neighbor, no...not even thee.