Gone With The Tide

Having your spirit swept away.

Plunged the cast to disrupt the surface.

Though this act was not earnest.

On this side one can’t see their reflection,

Only the visual of the fatal affectation.

Struck with handicap by a band,

No matter, they’ll always possess the upper hand.

 

However weightless, fate lays anchor to my mould.

 

Beneath the surface have he my mould restrain

Will which depletes yet not I feel pain.

Top of this mould, the lobes tell me I go frail

The core of this mould, these lobes tell me I can’t inhale.

But submerged from this other, here I remain.

His cleansing accomplice, to seize me as a stain.

Above he observes as though this some thriller.

As I put to flay in this silent executioner.

 

However weightless, fate lays anchor on my mould.

 

The bonds which claim my hands no matter my strain.

Though strain I dare not, a catalyst to life drain.

This mould descends further to depths which see no light.

Flushed by deathly silence, the drum in each ear grows tight.

I lay parallel to the surface; I break through the mould,

I lay parallel to the surface; my soul the heavens will hold.

 

However weightless, fate lays anchor on my mould.