The Swamp

Endless reaches

with entangled pockets

a thickened soup,

The Swamp

endures;

even the air

is overcome

by dankness,

moisture conquers

with humid insistence,

levitating heavily

dully suspended

into what once was oxygen,

like a magician’s trick

without applause;

the hell of life within

this grotesque environ,

bizarre and malformed

hideous and foul,

with strength overwhelming,

a devastating army

with their special

horrid stench

they rupture up,

roiling

roaring,

upward they stretch

densely,

adding to the airlessness,

as if to choke any life,

their murderous intent

a thickened growl,

upward they rumble,

as if to reach the hidden stars.

Barely visible,

through overburdened branches

creaking downward

with a glopping stickiness

that mocks the beauty

of Spanish Moss,

the secrets of life linger

in distant diamond stars;

out of reach,

beyond hope,

yet still just there,

the frailest edge

of a dream

or memory;

O my Soul!
sinking back,

into The Swamp

of my lungs.

© ACG

27 June 2011