What despair did he really feel
as his life gurgled by
him in so many pitiful laps?
Chopping and hacking his way through
the entire illusory country, drinking
up memories in a bitter brine.
How would it feel to enter that
river and emerge into a
thunderous foam of faded light?
Except not even the comfort of
sound is offered, only muted
breaths, waves and welter.
What would I think, gazing down at my
aged, yellowed form in the creeping
dusk, an ocean of being behind me?
Would drowning have been easier?