no doubt it is
when reading of all of
those poets who killed themselves
walk their lines with care
lest we too slip
down
the unplugged plug hole of faith
through which all sense is drained
leaving
in the trap
DOUBT such a dirty word
subliminally smiled away by the clergy
their sweet waters flowing
where no one has ever been
for the waters only return when there is a storm
and there
in the deluge
comes the regurgitated bile of doubt
and so we start another poem
for it seems that in the last one
we lost our footing
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