with gloveless fervent fingers grasping for straws,
I find myself choking on white caps of rushing water,
the progeny of chasms that manifest underneath me
on nights where gravity doubles in strength

my eardrums tighten as the croon of the rushing water and the percussion inside my chest create
a cacophony unknowing of the concept of crescendo.
the sinews of my limbs dance along,
in a fashion i can only describe as singeing.

despite how fiercely i kick,
-how stagnant the water becomes,
cement boots, composed of fears i’ve accrued like vending machine tchotchkes,
pull me closer to the riverbed.

dead stars grew tired of my pleas,
and turned their cheek to me.
the tide has become my sovereign.