Each soul,

Neither man nor woman,

Is held captive

By its self inflicted doubt,

Each

bone that is shattered by

The ever growing doubt,

Ultimately transforms into the bolt,

The bolt by which the door is held in its place,

The door between greatness,

And futile existence.

The barricades of fantasy

Could burn reality,

And desires if they are built

On the ground of anxious thinking.

Instead of water,

The drops of rain feels like needle,

Instigating abrasion of agony,

Only if we strip ourselves,

Only if we empower our doubts.

Only if we incubate in the shells,

The fragile yet unbroken shells of doubts.

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7 thoughts on “The Fragile Shells of Doubt

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