by Santiago

First the left foot,
then the right
A steady rhythm of up-down, up-down, up-down...
On through the mud I slog.

Hasn't stopped raining in who knows how long--
Was there ever a sun?
Sometimes, it slows,
slackens to a drizzle,
taunts you with false hope,
but always, always, always,
enough falls to keep all ever wet.
Soaked through to the roots of the earth,
even the great stones give way and crumble
before the merciless onslaught.
Mountains, hills, gullies, canyons--
inevitable cycle tumbling down,
down to a sunless sea.

Twisted willow, stark before me,
wretched withered hand clawing at the suffocating shroud.
Dead, dead from lack of balance;
fed too much water and no fire.

By its sodden trunk I fall,
too wearied to trudge on
in everlasting gloom.
Rivulets streaming down my tired face,
laughing at my defeat.
Emboldened, angered, ashamed,
I rise to make one final stand--
my knee finds no hold in the mud,
long devoid of any grass,
and slips,
sending me stumbling, falling, reeling backwards
into the cold thick mud
flowing like liquid evil,
choking all hope and light,
washing away all that once was.

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© Andrés Santiago Pérez-Bergquist, All rights reserved. The reproduction of this work, by any means electronic, physical, or otherwise, in whole or in part, except for the purposes of review or criticism, without the express written consent of the author, is strictly prohibited. All references to copyrighted and/or trademarked names and ideas held by other individuals and/or corporations should not be considered a challenge to said copyrights and trademarks.

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