Dissolving Banks of Time

Deaths harsh, cold water bites my bone.

It’s grasp makes no sound when the oar strikes the crown

my pulse quiets, stiffens, falls silent

I am in a place far, far, far from home

my spirit, my soul, my throne left to roam

Each pull of the river death drags me into further depths,

suffocating, placating, instigating

death—bring death close—closer

even still, let me flounder, hold me tight with intent but don’t mosey,

let me ramble, and amble, and bramble

as I wander just under the surface, letting deaths oars strike me as I float

Hollow my bones, let them age and grow old

wither my silver, until my garbs and dress and barbs rot and fall from my bloat

Every wade, every poke, every stroke from deaths slippery oar

gives a shallow sigh from deep within the bubbling riverbed, for more—

Be it the sound of discontent, of a life lost too soon, or of simple air escaping the silted confines of mud and dread

dark, bleak, obsolete

we beg

The last sounds of someone trying to speak exhales inside the suffocating rattle of those long-lost bodies dissolving beneath, the hull—their final screams long compressed into simple, mindless, fleeting thoughts.