brackish water, brackish words, decline, poem, Poetry, sonnet, where do the souls of the drowned go?
Now words are rare. Whatever synapses
let in the Divine are misfiring. ––
Neurons fail. Neural pathways do not please.
Now words are a struggle. I’m struggling
just to write this. Once I said I’d go turn
a tramp steamer into a library. ––
Sail from port to port, sharing that stubborn
love of books with all who live by the sea.
Now I’m struggling just to write this. Now
I sit in my chair and –– stare. There are no
books here. Words, like the water, turn brackish
each time I go down. Let me drown, somehow,
instead of this decline. Instead I know:
first I floundered, now flail and soon perish.