All things not moving forward start to sink,
sometimes by weight of inertia alone;
they're swallowed just as sure as any stone,
though sometimes not as quickly as you'd think--
It might take years to reach that final deep
where quicksand sloshes over mouth and nose
and fruitless struggles bubble to a close
with no one standing by, even to weep.
It's hard to gain momentum back, once lost,
with no vines hanging low enough to grasp
and ankle-deep mud sucking at your boots,
reminding you of streams you never crossed
before your feet stuck here as firm as roots,
so quick you hadn't even time to gasp.
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