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Old stuffs
The Swamp
It's been far too long. An inch of dust covers all, yet is easily blown away unlike one's troubles.

The Swamp

Through the swamp, muck, and stink
Boots squish and stick to mud.
The left lost in a wink;
Regret begins to bud.

Thoughts of going back sprouts
As crawling, compact vines.
Pride holds him back, but doubts,
They flood the mind with signs.

Too late—too long he thought.
The plants discreetly grew.
They wound about so taut,
All that’s left is the shoe.





Mira Monochrome
Community Member
Mira Monochrome
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