In the quiet of the mind, a shadow grows,
A silent specter, in repose.
It whispers doubts, and fear takes hold,
A story within, yet to be told.

It's not the speed that catches the eye,
But the slow, steady creep, that makes us sigh.
The joy once bright, now seems so far,
As this spell of gloom, becomes our scar.

In the dark, no light does shine,
No spark of hope, no sign divine.
The fear grips tight, an endless night,
A relentless hold, without respite.

So let the shadow come, let it weave its spell,
For in this verse, no courage dwells.
We face the darkness, alone, apart,
With just the spell, the shadow, and a silent heart.