It is reaching,
like an early shoot
in spring,
unaware that
one more frost
is forecast.
It is clawing
for a breath
of fresh air,
fingertips away,
but the tide is
coming in.
It is searching,
eyes bloodshot
and screaming
at midnight,
and the candle
burned out.
It is fighting
until the hands
are raw
and calloused,
and the blade
is as un-honed
as the reflexes,
and the mind
drifts to madness,
and words
finally pour
as a great flood,
drowning most
who had not
boarded
an ark.
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