I float under the rough currents
dazed and thoroughly beaten.
My body air-filled and rubber
Bashing into jagged blunders.

Within the tides that turn me round
I splash without a decibel of sound.
The oars that row me rotten dead
and my veins flowing with molten lead.

The syllables with which I speak
deafened by my groans of weak.
On deserted sand I stand alone
crumbling to a pile of bones.

The pressures of the heavy air
the stresses of which I bear
over me so they tower
as I wait for my final hour.

The sands of time flow with sombre
whilst I pray upon a broken altar
The soft bugle of a marching band
and I shall take a final stand.

Cowering under my own regrets
facing off against life's threats
I decidedly drop my weapon of nought
and turn my back without having fought.

The strings of distress of which I spool
may only be that of a fool
but the cups I use to rattle the grate
the number of times I see a head shake

Frenzied terror's what I call my friend.
The devil graces me a shake of his hand.
I climb the ladder of despair.
The final rung: I sit and stare

Christmas lights and deep winter snow.
Summer nights and cool wind blow.
Autumn with her orange trees.
Spring bringing back lush green.

All this I watch from there
I weep and I silently bear
the pain and joy it all has brought
upon me: an ungrateful rot.