Doubt Lives Poem by Airda Jones

Would it not be a miracle
To raise up the right hand
To forsee what was created
For the simple place of man

Becoming the undertaker for
The sorrowful lost of doubt
So simple and yet somehow
Her generation would be found out

Such an illness that consumes
The most holiness of minds
Where discretion itself lies
Beyond the most fortunate of finds

So what knowledge be left
To a well ridden arm
To face forward her doubt
And of its intuitive harm.