The fluttering doubt
As it snags you again
Making that nasty mark
Opening the bleeding wound
Where it bores deep inside;

There, it finds your mind
Your mind it corrupts
And as that corruption spreads
There’s only tatters left
Some you, the others rest
Pleasantly in deception;

And from those scraps,
You reform yourself
Those tatters a sullen patchwork
Not enough to close the bleeding wound.

21.X.23