Poetry

Too deep — barely breathing. Cursed to swim, not float.

Current pulls — further, deeper, The shore whispers, horizon taunts.

Soon to sink. To drown.

I am a wick — forced to burn, doomed to smother.

Haunted by breath — that clogs, not clears.

Lungs will fill — with smoke or salt. Full.

Waves don't wait for sand or stone. Treading's for survival — not life.

Arms, soon to give. Legs will quit. The sea will take me.

A body once known, turned depths lurking. The salt will claim me.

Click click — the mint approaches. A simple feeling: an ache masked in flavor.

Click click — the tube running low, a soft charade of bliss.

The temptation of tongue, the dread of the teeth. Click click — no twist left — wasting.

As the lips cry their wear, the thumb plays that rhythm. Click click — the relief dwindles.

Balm seals the creases — a crack no more. As the click click grows distant.

A cheap motion, in object, in cost. A purpose: routine — a callous click click.

For the green distracts, the mint soothes the pain. Click click — just for me.

Still walking. To what — to where? It's unbecoming; just walking.

The leaves rustle, the humidity just so. There — a shadow scurries across the path.

Just a rat — a mouse maybe. Hurriedly running from a faint flutter — a whisper of wings — a "who" echoes — alone.

Pine muddles the senses. The wind shouting from the valley afar.

For the trees: they're listening — laughing.

But they do not speak, nor cast judgment. For they cannot with their lungs filled with sap.

They cannot breathe alone, yet they persevere all the same. For their yearning's not for novels — but for rings.

While the granite lies again exposed, and the moss now looks west. And the trees still chuckle, with a new grin on the same grain.

Now the branches feel like family, and all the timber gathers near. The trees continue dancing — like they always do.

"Have I seen that one before?"