You scare the shit out of me. You scare me like no other ever has.
You frighten me in the way early men must have been frightened at first seeing the Aurora Borealis blossoming above them in the northern sky, painting an unfathomable masterpiece on an endless cosmic canvas; or at witnessing the birth of an island as an erupting volcano boiled above the still, blue surface of an ancient sea, building to an explosion of white-hot glory. You frighten me in the way any beautiful phenomenon defying explanation must have frightened the first man to conceive of the first gods to protect his own fragile sanity. But, it’s so much more than that.
You terrify me in the way a moth must feel terror as it flutters involuntarily ever closer to the flickering flame of its own demise, drawn by some innate, undeniable urge it has no strength, or means, or hope to combat. I read, and I see everything depicted by the artfully woven words your nimble mind has twined together, and all I can do is wonder at all that might still lie hidden beneath; at whether I might survive a single verse further into your thoughts’ delectable recesses.
You terrify me because I am a man of worth, and power, and intellect, and I know this,—I know this just as surely as I know that you are an inescapably beautiful and intriguing flame; and I, a moth.