The Battlefield for My Soul

The early hours of morning
are a battlefield for my soul.Fear, with my mind
as trusted steed,
knocks my Wise Self
to the ground,
kidnaps my heart,
leaves sleep in her wake.These witching hours
are a battlefield for my soul.

My Wise Self picks herself up,
brushes feardust off her wings,
rises above the chaos.

It does not take her long
to catch up with Fear–
who has run out of steam
and is huddled by a tree.
For she is not a witch
but a scared child
wanting reassurance,
yet not trusting it to be real.

Wisdom cradles us both,
crooning us back
into fitful slumber.

Who knows who will win
when I wake?