Like tendrils of wispy smoke creeping in through small cracks in the walls
seeping in spreading out until I am filled like water into a glass
starting small just a single thought that grows bigger as I feed it
ever hungry it keeps asking for more and slowly I am surrounded
curling around my every waking moment I begin to question everything
as it consumes me I become lost and all I have accomplished means nothing
I hear the whispers at first only a word here or there
but then a nonstop sound that drowns out anything positive
faith becomes something lost
belief a word I am unfamiliar with
trust for the process impossible to find
trapped in this box filled with only doubt
continuing to search for the way out
Deborah Horton Writing 