A scratch within the throat becomes a warning, A coated tongue can steal the peace of morning. A heartbeat missed, a pressure, or a pain— The mind turns every signal into blame. A harmless symptom grows beneath the eye, A question turns into a reason why. “Could this be something no one sees or knows?” And fear begins to deepen as it grows. One doctor says, “There’s nothing to be found.” But doubt refuses to accept the sound. Another voice is sought, another door, Another test to calm the fear once more. Yet reassurance fades before the night, And every answer loses all its light. The body speaks in ordinary ways— But fear translates its language into graves. It isn't weakness, madness, nor a lie, But fear that keeps the mind alert and dry. The search for certainty becomes the chain, And every cure gives birth to doubt again. For sometimes what the frightened heart must learn Is not that every warning sign will burn— But that a body can be strange and sore, And not every shadow hides a war. The hardest healing may not be a test, Nor finding one more doctor to attest. It may be learning, slowly, day by day, To let uncertain thoughts arise—and stay.
