There’s an eerie fog-encompassing the bog.
Perched upon a log, a lonesome frog-croaks out a long, mournful song.
You walk-the length of the dock-to a deeper water, where a boat-is afloat.
Behind you, you drag a sled-full of dread.
You manage to wrestle, and get it nestled-within the vessel.
The dreaded cargo wrapped in cord-with weights galore.
You shove off now, with pointed prow-in westward direction- after quick inspection-of what surrounds.
As the dock disappears. There are growing fears, but you paddle on.
Then...
SNAP!
Oh, dear…
Your lonesome oar-is no more.
You scramble to retrieve, but you can hardly believe-the mist has already consumed it.
You’ve now lost your bearing.
Your venture is not faring-the way you were planning.
So you sit…
and listen…
Occasional glug and plop.
Sounds without bounds, from unknown direction- caused by deflection-produces erections-of ghoulish projections!
From underneath comes a knock-on the tiny boat.
Beast, ghoul, or rock?
Questions in thought, as the boat remains afloat.
Body chilled like the air that surrounds.
And the sounds-you fear-to hear- produces tingling hairs, that wears-and tears-at overactive mind.
Before all composures lost, you force a pause.
A pause to ponder what this moment has caused…
…just breathe, finish the deed, so you can sigh in relief…
But will relief come-once this moment is done?
Through the reeds, to finish the deed, to release what feeds-your anxious state.
Ah!
The moment has come, let this be done.
By a bog soaked tree, you can see-a spot to be free-from this burden you bear.
But beware!
Matters such as these-must be handled with ease.
Nothing to hear, the water lay clear, but the fog dims light, so you fight-to see depth, because you need to be sure the depth is enough, but it’s tough.
Oh!
You brought a light, that’s right!
You packed it in your pack-that sits upon your back.
Retrieve it from there, there’s no time to spare- if you want to be freed-of this most foul deed.
With a flick of a switch, and with eyes pealed, illumination revealed-bottom of bog.
You see a log, and some twisted sticks.
This location will do.
Bog pool is deep enough.
But you loathe-to dispose, though there’s no choice to be chose, so be rid of this old chuff.
You grab the dreaded cargo, under your lights glow.
You lift and you heave, you grunt when you breath, you feel anger and you seethe, and then… PLOP!
…Another misfortune...
You watch in dismay-as your light slips away, to the sticks down below.
It holds its glow, and shines up to the boat.
In your frustrated fit, you slip-and you trip, the boat you now tip.
And down you go, following the lights glow, with your cargo in toe.
You realize-your demise, when the weights hold you down.
The sticks form a crown, and you know that you will drown.
Your last thought to be:
“You were dead to me, now I’m dead with thee.” as your light shines on your cargos face.
And those dead eyes are the last thing you’ll see, as you join them in peace.
As you join them – in eternal sleep.
~Bödwhíst