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I stand amidst the sands of life,
abreast the dune,
in the balance of consciousness, its eagerness
to pull me down, and devour me,
whole, without a glance.
I struggle to rise above,
breathless, as the ribs crush,
too often trapped between hope and death,
strengths against my apparent weaknesses.
One last effort as it saps my will,
skin taut,
for I have been here all too often.
A final push against its grip,
the strive towards the living,
so weak I stand drained white with the shakes,
glaring at the light,
in the comfort of a breeze
I look below to my path of demise,
ripples against my feet,
my image in shadows of grey,
it whispers my name with menace and shrill,
reminding evermore that my time will come,
its readiness to devour,
and claim another lost soul.
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Poetry: Quicksand
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