Why is it when everything seems
to be going as planned, doubt slips in,
and questions, flavored with fear, generate indecision.
The fog of differing self slips under the door,
envelopes a conflicted mind in dis-grace.
Thought’s, trapped in perceived limitations
and insipid soul consuming worry, step up,
and you close down.
If sadness is to come of it,
since stories hidden and suppressed
unravel in the end, what is it that prevents
the telling of the truth, when the thought occurs.
The truth as one and all know it to be.
Not wanting to make waves,
upset the apple cart, cross any bridges before you come to them,
trouble hides behind a smother of silent guilt,
where misplaced fears are buried,
deep within the mindful realm of the unforgiven.
Deep in age the soul sometimes has need to vent,
a hearts repent, trouble borrowed or lent
will, on its’ own rise to the surface where
it takes as much consciousness
to hold on to secrets, as it does letting go.
If you are not one to borrow trouble,
all but the sorrow will settle indiscreetly
in the deepest recesses of the heart.
The mind will hold onto the pain
ensuring itself a life of its own,
and you go on living
with your dirty little surreptitious thought
In the end, everything washes ashore
worrisome wears thin with a waning spin
and guilt, burrowed and buried in shame,
rises to the surface.
Truth would have it, tells all in the end,
and barters not the emotions
nor favors foe or friend