Night became a haunted past
as hours slipped by, some rustic features-
a delight in day, blended beneath cobweb clouds.
Like vagrants, slowly wandered mists
played tricks with moonbeams.
We felt life slipping like cool water through fingers
for none can catch every raindrop,
when there are such disobedient clouds
and truths become the anchors that tie us to the mud, until
we hold breath beneath rising floods
and surging tides cover our eyes; until
for survival, we burn from the heat of wasted air
but know we cannot find means like fish.
Some idea of truth it was that held us there,
and now we simply inspire slow agony, unless
we admit from the awful weight
bellows bursting within
that even unfeeling waves of time
make riddles of us all... and so many virtues
upon which we build so much of ourselves,
become more and more like the mud.
Honorable mention
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