Doubt

To doubt too often deeper doubts succeed,
upon itself it’s self perversely feeds,
sad skeins, dyed grey or black, back interbreed,
and darkly hung, strung cloud mind wrung. Foul weed
whose sole success seems self-destructive need,
whose cancers cluster, to each breast accede.
Nor church, nor sect, nor rosary, nor bead,
successfully may ever intercede
to shrug such shackles so dark doubts recede
unless the mind lets aching heart re[a]d bleed,
and heed pain’s flow, outgrowing grief, concede
that stress-free sojourn can’t be guaranteed...

poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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