In a growing fog, I traveled
in a rowboat to an unknown shore. Unsure
I'd even reach any shore.
When my arms grew weary, I
lay back and let the boat
drift, directionless,
a mote on a vast
unblinking cataract.
Sky perhaps a mere
grey shade lighter
than this great water.
At times so enraged I'd row
so hard my heart
felt the bloodlust of a stoat
eating through the hide
of a stricken deer.
At others, only
mourning, only
sorrow.
Land glimpsed through cloud
but fleeting, maddening,
while silence hushed the skies
and night wouldn't fall.
Days of this. Weeks. Birdless
and silent, except for the oar blades
cutting and dripping like
a killer's dark enterprise.
Enticements, dreams of
welcome and a beach
warm under endless blue.
Imagination a whore.
A disordered mind will trap you
if you yearn for but never reach
a solitary shore.