#mybog

My single pair of muffled footfalls

press their prints into mud.

Land becomes blurred with water.

The ground beneath, like a

stomach that churns, eagerly

shifts to swallow my being.

With each succeeding step,

greater effort demanded.

The mind cannot help

but wonder, how much

Further must I go?

Waist-wading through waterlogged loam, the

autumnal moors seek to make a meal of me.

The jaws of mud and teeth of my own weight

clamp down upon me, sinking further and

deeper within the Quagmire.

My legs, petrified in peat, no longer carry me.

To the bog, my weary body acquiesces.

No further can I go.

Still in silt, my eyes a’wander.

Fir fens loom ‘round, dotted

with yellowing birches and beeches.

The ground stained a scarlet red,

carpeted by the fallen maple leaves

that mark the genesis of autumn.

The storm-wakened sky, a deep fading blue

adorned with pillowy pink clouds,

lingers aloft. Time passes.

Twilight hath descended, and yet,

Further must I go.