Surity flees before the encroaching shadow of self doubt.
Invisible seeds, once sown take root,
Thriving in a fertile mind of insidious obscurity.
Twisted, the stalks sprout bearing foul fruit,
Which once rotten bear more seeds,
To grow wild and tainted, unharnessed,
In the rampantly fermenting compost
Of a profaned conscious.
© Dawn Whitehand 2012