Struggling and thick with mud the steps are.
And if every movement were to take you and slide you into the deep,
where the muck breathes slowly and grips tight until there is nothing of your energy left
to try and get back up again.
Grey all over,
like I imagine London to be, or the fens of Scotland or anywhere on Earth,
when the clouds are thick and uniform and grey and wet.
I wonder.
Slowly and stiffly,
I haven't wondered in a while.
Wandered, either.
Thought tomorrow. People, existence, life.
But tonight is long. Questionable.
Breathing.
