QUICKSAND

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By Tom H. Brooks 3

 

In the course of my life,
I have found numerous ways
to torment myself.
Sometimes my every thought
is a tiny slice of my soul
committing suicide.

I see things too clearly
I hear them too loud
I feel things too deeply.

My dreams are sledgehammers
pounding inside my skull
to get out into the light.

Sometimes I feel as though
I have nothing left to give
but this always proves untrue.
What I have to give
is left alone in the darkness
scrambling through a
boundless void
like a blind man
stumbling on broken glass.

How does one rekindle the fire
of youthful wonder and innocence?
How does one reclaim lost enthusiasm
snatched like a wallet at a subway station
in the dead of night?
How does one live again…love again?

The quicksand pulls me deeper-
relentlessly,
deeper
into its smothering grip.
I have no answers.
It engulfs me
as I struggle in vain
for the blue sky above…

 

 

THB3

 

 

(The above digital artwork is titled Vanishing…)

 

 

 

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