Oh, my spurn of this shallow swamp!
For: it is not extensive enough
to blanket my body, when I fall over,
clomp- ing through the mud so rough.

To, under starlit sky, be submerged-
fully- on a summer night-
a desperate attempt to purge-
this black matter from within my blood
and these negative emotions that do flood-
my mind from time to time,
these sinister thoughts of mine.

Under muddy waters,
all of my feelings absolve;
& under muddy waters,
the time on my watch comes to a halt.

It's truly tantalizing-
how all of my pety issues can be resolved:
with merely one immaculately deep breath
- of the muddiest water.

Under muddy waters,
the world's disarray fades off;
& under muddy waters,
I let out my last and final cough.

--

Where is the grandeur
in growing grey, without the girl
you're grateful god grew?

Do you understand how grand-
it would be to sleep, hand in hand, 
next to her while she is blanketed
in my old, ragged shirt?

Oh, the stupid smirks:
I would emit without command.

--

Unto these muddy waters,
my shadows follow.
Unto these muddy waters,
my soul has ran
- and fallen;
and into these muddy waters,
I will be swallowed.

--

Just have to drag out the garden hose first-
& run the faucet for a days worth - time. Then, and only then, shall my end- begin.
- Under muddy waters.

What would you say, if I portrayed -
a thought- no- an image
inside of your brain?

Would you read through
the sorrow and pain?

Would you read on a day
that my originality is, ever, so plain?

Would you read when my words
seem to mesmerize:
the times when I get a twinkle in my eye?

Do not lie.

Would you read
until I, last, say 'goodbye'?

What would you say, if I debate that:

  "all the vile old men in the world-
 are actually children- who have failed
to make amends with the people,
places and things that have hurt them,
way back when" ?

There is a cigarette smoldering 
 amidst the early southern, Spring sun:
 firmly seized between these fingers 
 whose winter worries have,
seemingly, wept away.

Changing of seasons has begun unfolding
 and I still have yet to treat my lungs
to a vacation: from the smoke that lingers-
yes! they're crying for a bath:
obviously, ignored each day.

Fully knowing the winter worries 
are just stored away,
for a snowy day,
he attempts to enjoy
the grandeur of grass growing green. 

Skeptical, of course: awaiting flurries.
"Now, it'll be any day!"
    "Just you wait!"
I know the coldness will only,
my heat striken labor, come to destroy.

Oh, if only she were my Queen!
Then, things would be a dream!

It has been- the same ole' scene
in this same ole', stock city.

I spend my moons- singing out,
baffoon -ishly,
this same ole' song of Eldorado.

I sing this same ole' song:
as the dead, golden grass
grows grand and green.

I sing this same ole' song:
as a sixty mile, whipping wind
blows through the Mississippi.

I sing this same ole' song:
under the succulent shine of,
the fullest of many moons.

I sing this same ole' song:
until I hear the beetles and worms
chew through this coffin,
deep in the ground of  Eldorado.

I speak not, in the dreadful dusk.

Upon questioned why, I respond,
  "It is simply not a must,"

"How will we know what's flowing
  in that rust- ed skull of yours?"

  "One thing is for sure,
    my words upon paper,
    you can trust: if you wonder-
    how, it is, that I feel. "

My voice fades off
into the dark of the night:
it's not, at all, by choice;
it, merely - away from me, takes flight:
like a blackbird singing
in the abyss of this- evening.

Oddly enough,
no grieving- has taken place.
I, simply, waved farewell-
and grabbed a pen - violently:
it's bleeding!

The ink shall bleed
one, single night:
and then to the trash,
with all my might-
I shall toss this bloodless pen!

"Grant me access to your 
  exquisite empire- & I shall ensure fire
  never rains down upon these walls.

My Queen-, I have had many, a, falls-
  but- don't mistake me for foolish,
  nor meek!
For I am always up and pondering
  yet I am never losing sleep:
  for sleep is unneeded.

Oh, the joy my words would weep
  should you allow me to, even,
  look after the sheep -
  outside the walls
  - of your empire."

As the mallards do quack-
he falls over: into below, the rough;
attempting to find the oxygen he lacks.
In a collapsed state of mind, and bones;
he stands back up, trying to look tough.

As the finches do sing, and cheep-
he stand there shaking, in solitary,
because his figure is too frail- meek-
weak to weather these Wednesday woes.
"Oh! Wednesday's evermore weary."

He can say- cry to thy, as a fact, that
his head stay virtuous through it all;
though: he cannot help, the fact, that
his nerves may tremble, frequently..
in the spills, anxious spells, he befalls.

"Oh, I would be so enthralled
if you would embrace this estranged elf!"
Falling; to the muddy waters, he slithered:
to see if he would- could vividly, see
the face- nature of his true, inner self.

But- the muddy waters bear no image
and he begins to wonder if it's an omen.
He gaze, into muddy waters, in grimace.
He begins to believe, he should listen
to what it is they will tell- show him.

But- he has always been pigheaded-
& will likely keep wowing on Wednesdays.
"You oughta view where y'r life b'headed-"
pointed out passing pastor: eyes, a, glisten.
But- he's never been the one to pray.

He peers as the pastor saunters off
and from a, near, brief bit away: he hears,
"For that young soul, all hope is lost!"
"Oh! But the pastor, himself, is lost!"
he projects back at those zealous ears.

"Blast'd pastor has ****** in my puddle!
This puddle in my mind, he's splashed in!"
Godly guys grieving his soul does befuddle
- his soul. He'd avoid that, at any cost.
"Now it'll be weeks, before I can bathe in
- my puddle of mud, comfortably."