8/13/2026 for This Or That, Vol. 40 Poetry Contest sponsored by Edward Ibeh
I watch flecks of stubble sadly float. They have no hope. They have no boat. Their chances are remote. So, it provides them no cheer, I think, that they'll drain down a slow sink. I look down with a hint of fear to see my feet, then legs, disappear. This must be quicksand. I say "Oh dear"; and my form begins to shrink as into the earth, I slowly sink. I watch the sun set in the West and ask, "Should I be depressed or be glad that my life's been blessed?" It replies by turning the sky pink, and begins to slowly sink. I watch my body disintegrate as I only gradually meet a fate that doctors try to mitigate. In a word, I'd say, it "stinks", this somber, sunless, sad slow sink.
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.