One drowns, it seems.  One loses hope,
Sinking ever farther from the surface,
And the sun and sky.  What was is not
To be recovered.  What will be
Is emptiness, a cold and solitary realm.
The pleasures of the past are desiccated,
Merely memories, which float away
As one descends into a dark abyss.

Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
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Written on 2022-11-09 at 01:10

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Griffonner The PoetBay support member heart!
Lawrence, this poem takes a morose view of existence.
Even before sinking beneath the surface, the pleasures of the past are merely memories: This is the thing about memory, and it is unreliable too (since 'science' has proved that our memories are modified according to our experiences between times). So what do we cling to? What is tangible and reliable? I say it is LOVE... unconditional LOVE. [*Gets of soap box and exits stage right*]
Seriously, your poem is very thought provoking, even if morose. :)

arquious The PoetBay support member heart!
And there is that notion that linear thinking kills creativity. And if the abyss is three dimensional, say, perhaps it is narrower sideways or diagonally.