Wandering helpless I struggle in these waters
the air freezing around my damp hair.
I am painted here, never to move,
never to know the emotion
etched across my shadowed face.
But here I am without a conscience to guide,
without a beat to march along with,
or a hand to grasp when the tides pull
is too strong for this unweathered body.
Light and heavy, horizontal, vertical
and diagonal are these ever present
brushstrokes that have set my roots
here among dew laden ferns and sticky
spider webs. The woods fading into black
behind my fair skin.
The Marsh Child, this my title, my name,
my only inkling to gain.
23 hours ago