The anchor is down,
it gets pulled by the ghosts that hover above the bottom of the ocean
of your heart.
So with it,
you muct sink too.
Leaden legs, drag you to the edge of the cliff.
Under it nothing but a vast expanse you cannot make anything out of,
Where do they actually begin?
These creeping vines made up of your darkest thoughts
sneak their way up and coil their tiny tendrils around your feet
because ideas can damage you permanently.
They go on to pull you away
from the solid ground, the foundation of life,
so that you can fly momentarily before it ends.
People gather on the shore,
just outside of your existence,
to point their binoculars at you,
” that is a sinking ship.
Nothing much can be done now. Tch Tch.”
And you watch them as the sea of turbulent storms creating storms within,
engulfs you whole,
like a hungry fish.
And throws the skeleton back to your folks.
The remains of you that will not smile from the heart,