Poetry

Bog marching

It’s tar, covering my legs, arms, brain.

Clogged up like clockwork that’s been residing at the bottom of a pond for decades.

There are no eagles to pick me up once I’ve reached my destination, but no lava to threaten me as I pick my own path back home.

Time is meaningless and astounding.

I’m in it, not an outsider.

Tick.  Let me wake.

Tock. Let me run.