I cannot write a thing
There seems to be a dearth of words
A dearth of inspiration
Suffocation is slow and creeping.
Behind the trees and under gnarled wood
the water stagnates
inert and inactive; dead to flow.
Death of spirit; corroding life; pools of murky water.
I am dying here
Suffocating in silence
Words trapped in my throat
Action stemmed and stopped.
Shrouded and surrounded by things.
My lifeline’s slipped
My steppingstone’s submerged slippery and covered in slime.
Ay up duck egg.
I struggle to move and breath is shallow or slow.
The mirror is cracked but stays there
Shards of glass falling into shards of glass.
Weeds strangle and obscure and
piles of things threaten to capsize into the rotting water.
Let my blood and let my energy
Let my water to flow.