The bed I made, already grave, I try to grasp at hope to save, to see myself sink further still, the surface mocks, exhausted will, and quest of something true, with ease, slips out into uncertainty.
But I remember myself.
I look inward.
My insides churn with the realisation that I will not make it through.
I thought that I could dive so deep but did not see the weight with me.
Here, in these bags, the sand I gathered from the ocean floor.
When all this land was desert still the sun beat its heart onto these rocks and taught the rocks to breathe.
Open porous rocks teeming with tiny hope of life snaking its way through passages borne from the inside out.
Great waves now wash those nodes of time.
The memory of sunlight in tidal changes and eastern currents.
And coldness is an ocean floor.
I shake myself again.
But isn’t water life?
Desert and scorched and burnt and drought and death but water, water is life.
And I could drown myself in life.
Overwhelmed lungs could suck in liquid air and water the branches of my bones.
I resolve and shun the surface; the greater journey is deeper still.