A stilled ochre river carries a lone wooden boat. A dock that goes on reaches the boat and stops mid-waters.
How is it that stillness can still threaten whilst beckoning a false sense of security, silent words given, but suddenly screaming in your veins.
A water’s nature is to ripple, spasm and contort, such as unease always creeps and anxiety steeps.
Alone we are inside our mind, a torment only we can bury lest the dock not fade into the fog, but into the waters, its creaking lumber no longer able to hold.
Even so, a guide for the lone boat, a hint, a way to follow outside of this space of yellow and anguish.
Hidden feelings disguised as solace seduces the mind, bringing the wooden boat a ways farther, a ways closer to the molten honey,
a gloss that does not shield the boat but floods it if the opportunity ever arises. The fog grows as time passes and the waters subside.