Slow does doubt devour

Ever it starts,
With a sliver in the mouth.
Oft repeated it grows,
The shape of thought,
Though a wisp it may be.
Shadows do slowly grow,
And doubts they become,
Death of hope slow.
Ever a doubt has come,
And turned not to blame,
That the father of anguish,
The precursor of pain.
Little things in little shadows grow,
Little things do devour slow.