On the finding of confidence.

Can you recognize the aphotic doubt?
That midnight pool, you gently glide throughout.
The clot of air, horrid, humid worry,
Blurred branches fettering out in fury.

Bleary digits stretching out to quelch,
To trap, to tear, and to tow to the mulch.
Those lurid margins and high stands fornenst,
“Awake!” “Awareness!” to what they dispense.

The sharp jagged bank will set stiff your gait,
But the stones are surer than the callous hate,
Of copse that will hitch the wrong sort of knot,
And vicious impishness of faithless thoughts.

Let dilemma drip down to rest in tarn,
Hike the bituminous path, the creases worn.
Set high away from that stygian pool,
Scape your escape, in reminisce find fuel.

Alight that tinder of apprehension,
Of self-distrust, and fear of rejection.
Throw in the fire the bole of reluctance,
And have a moment of warm indulgence.

Can you recognize the aphotic doubt?
That midnight pool, your roots run throughout.