a Poem by Raquel Swann

Despair wraps it’s arms around me,
no intentions to ever let go,
a slow death,
fighting the quicksand for so long,
has led to this moment.

With sand at the bottom of my lips,
thirsty for love,
starving for acceptance,
no more wiggling, resisting,
be still and accept your fate.

Gritty sand tastes awful,
you must breathe from your nose,
remain calm,
it’s almost over,
all your dreams sink into the muck
beneath your feet.

A gust of wind blows across your nostril,
the final scent of freedom,
your nose is submerged,
when all the air is gone,
you’ll be taken.

A place worse than death,
a place where dreamers awake,
a place where the stars are unreachable,
a place where bullets can’t hit the moon,
a place some call reality.

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