That Which We All Fear Poem by Jack Ashenden

Sensation of the mind as blackest thought
doth creep upon every walking moment.
I remember it was not what I sought,
these icy rings of eternal torment.
Nothing can describe the painful nightmare
this oft extended, withering grey arm doth bring -
this three hour hell of human despair
of which the invigilator is King.
When over, a thousand sighs of relief
do enter the chillingly silent hall
the now known hand doth re-enter it's sheath,
and now the horror doth truly feel small.
This dream of life leaveth no lasting mark -
But I know this fear lies still in my heart.