I spent the runaway night
trying to measure what would lie beyond a reprieve?
Some short attention span?,
a petition of petty promises made to outweigh the clawing mud
and unseen sharp edges yet to cut.
I tried my death of you,
down remembered paths to the water’s edge,
unseasonal and biting cold;
“I knew it wouldn’t last”
the mocking whispers from the reeds concurred,
but I swam downwards, regardless,
to where the vows were buried,
lusting after the end.
© D. Archer. July 2013