Panic’s Hidden Damage 

When that panicked flight is run

and you stand bent, heaving for breath,

pause to assay the damage done

in your mad dash from imagined death.

The cuts and scrapes and nicks and tears

inflicted on your skin and clothes

Pale beside those fearful stares;

They’ll heal and mend, but what of those?

They’ll linger on, for quite awhile,

like articles archived away

deep in some drawer, a dusty file

saved to show, some distant day,

offered up as specious proof

That you’re not calm, cool, and aloof!

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