The Thing I Fear Most

This morning the thing I fear sat at the end of my bed
in familiar clothes,
touched my foot with fondness,
whispered all was OK.
I listened uneasily, then lay back into sleep.

This thing I fear followed me to work,
stood beside me at my desk and praised
the words spreading on the screen as I typed. 
I heard, but felt dissatisfied.

How do I escape? 
It grins at me with my own mouth
and tells me what I want to hear.

It would remove my teeth,
leaving me nothing with which to bite.
It would pull the nails from my fingers,
so their tips touch softly but have no grip.

On the day I die, this thing I fear will force
me lie down and be content
as my flesh softens.
My throat will release no angry cries.
My hands will rest  instead of reaching
for sky, distant trees, the solemn faces bending over me.
I will diminish
to nothing  more than what I am.