Imagine living life on a treadmill,
walking miles only to wipe off the starting line
in vain attempts to reach the better life waiting 3 feet away.
Imagine each step closer taking you two steps behind,
up until a point that you can’t pinpoint a beginning,
waiting for a corner in the street to make sense.
But you are a pirate with a hand me down ship,
one with more anchors than sails
stuck in stagnant waters.
The waters will start to stink soon enough;
the floorboards will start to give way.
The ditch you have spent your life in will somehow dig deeper,
as if to say, the starting line was always an illusion,
the sinful fruit you were asked not to eat, but would eat anyway,
in a land which does not forgive to forget,
but digs the ditch deeper so you never know where to begin from again.
This is not to say that you will never truly reach the other side,
you will be the end the other side will have to walk towards,
because marshy homelands and stagnant waters
make ditches feel like comfortable homes,
not so you can never leave,
but so that you never truly feel your body decaying
as you’re buried alive, wrapped in air that doesn’t let you move.