Like a man obliged to drown,
With two feet on dry ground.
No will to to walk,
let alone swim.
To this is grief akin.

To spend ones life making great things,
and serving kings then perchance your love to perish?
Who are you with no ghosts to cherish?

A bucket for the grief.
A forked tongue behind cracked teeth,
Fair heart, turned warm chuck beef.
A temple of values and beliefs,
and life turned ruinous den of sin.
To this is grief akin.

Your hidden heartland brought down from within,
Fair near the center’s where the invasion begins.
Your continent it spans,
you turned, you broke, you ran.
You dug too deep, you swam.

Now fouled muddied waters echo,
cause foul worried din.
A tidal wave detritus clogs drains,
leaves naught but pink taut skin.
To this is grief akin.

You wake neck deep in ocean.
Let loose that ball in motion.
Time for survival.
Look around can you see land?
Can you touch ground?
Can you touch base?
You should have said could couldn’t swim.
You should have learned to swim!

To this is grief akin.

A bird of lofty leisure,
with flourish of the wings
makes clatter on the roof top,
those noble, hapless seeds.
They gather in the gutter muck,
for thus are now such things.
Lamenting their own lost blossoms,
for the want of a fine set of wings.