Mud Suck Mind
Go fearward.
On mud this mind is built.
Thought formations float the surface,
likely at any wrong step to sink stuck.
A field of ideas like tall reeds dense packed,
seed-heads reaching skyward,
tethered by stems to roots in the mire.
Black, wet, stagnant, oozing muck,
sticky squelching, putrid belching, dragging down.
Panic to escape.
Seek a foot sized island,
a dry stacked mesh of trampled reeds,
the most rotten footing better than none at all.
Anything to make a
step forward
possible.
©Manna Hart, Tyalgum, Tues, 27.1.14