My thoughts are fleeting but a worm, in all his earthly glory writhes, on occasion in my darkest depths.

Mostly hidden fodder for flight, he makes me believe the fault is mine.

He’s been there a millennia longer than my heart had courage to know.

The fissures that burst through my mind don’t throb; they come and pass, quick and jagged glass.

The flick of a tail and the bruises of silent moments become unforeseen holes in my rapier’s aim.

Slashing, swinging, gasping, grasping, before tumbling into transient loss.

And every so often my fonder thoughts fall in too, dragging them down.

Each time the little drop pulls me down, I feel him, I feel that once lifeless worm cry out: *“Doubt!”