Quicksand

I've listed my faults,

gathered my failings

into one nice tidy box,

but they are just words:

routine,
empty.

formless,

plucked from air

(and a dictionary)

with gutsy optimism

that they are something
to grasp on to.

But labels are funny things,

defining choices,

narrowing the flow,

creating an invisible prison

devoid of chance,

bereft of choice;

the type of place fit only
for automatons

and guilt.

I would walk away from it all,

step outside the ring of lies,

the polluted stream

of fevered dreams

and cravings for certainty
in an unsure world.

There is nothing here
but quicksand

and illusion.

The body succumbs to temptation,

but the mind can choose
to be free.

This was written for The Sunday Whirl.