The Fog

When you’re at the edge of your spark,
There’s a silent doubt that witholds it.
Like it’s resolute or resounding affirmation
That this is never happening.

But when you get back to the middle,
In between plains of greens and black,
You start to see the grains of doubts
Speckled as dust
And possibility remained in the form of
Open space and flat plains.

And you found that it is your mind
That constricts you.
Swallowed your steps
And halt you.

So gather your thoughts
In worded form
And take a leap
From the great valley of doubt.


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