He didn’t know where he could go
He just stood alone on the shore.
The boat was swamped and the oar was lost
The fog made his vision poor.
Stuck in the muck
And all out of luck
He’d time to wonder what was in store.
He didn’t walk across the marsh
For muddy clothes are unbecoming.
Help would surely turn and run
When they saw him coming.
’Twould be just chance and happenstance
If he were to cross the great expanse
To better ground without succumbing.
He didn’t swim into the water
For he couldn’t see the water’s end.
How far could he get before he lost
The strength on which he’d depend?
With a final stroke life would loosen its yoke
And with his driving spirit broke
To the depths he would descend.
He didn’t walk the water’s edge
For one shore just leads to another.
It’d be a waste of his precious time
To trade one situation for the other.
With a look around all he found
Was the water lapping the ground
And he gave forth the despondent utter:
“Whose man am I that I should be
Without a worthwhile destiny?
What purpose does it serve
To stand alone on this muddy strand
Sinking in the filthy sand
Lacking motivation’s nerve?”
There he stood slowly sinking
Into the quick and muddy shore.
First to the top of his polished boots
Then up to the fancy pants he wore.
Then past his shirt went the rising dirt
And soon there was no way to divert
The destiny that was in store.