Outlasting the Struggling Poet
Down by the river there are stones inside my pockets and there is water in my lungs.
Just beside the water I can hear the church bells being rung, as I tumble, as I drag against the rocks and the garbage.
The music echoes underneath the surface, and I am swallowed whole.
I can recall the sanity my illness stole, while I’m drowning and no longer fighting to breathe.
I am well acquainted with their voices, yet they surprise me every time I hear them speak.
They still chatter even as my body sinks, lower and lower and fast I am carried away by the current.
Outlast and forgive a struggling poet, for I am no more, no more, no more.
My body washes upon the dirty shore, but it shall never be discovered.
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