Quicksand Inside

Softly slipping while sitting down,
Betting all in to stay out;
I’m okay.

While I saw the wooden warning sign
Written and posted, I still bide my
Time to not apperceive its parlous nature.

I only remain down and lie, pretending
Not to slide, that perhaps I am moving
On my own, in control: abjuring the inevitable.

Soft granules of sand; the grit is not
Bothering me, it almost feels good—
But the wooden sign warns again.

I have been here before, but then I
Walked around more, listening to lore
About sandy shores—but never inside.

Now the quicksand sifts there, inviting:
Sliding, slipping, wantonly, willingly,
I can run to be singing to be pretending

I am not a drowning voice, sucked into
you: quicksand melting me into the
Moors of mankind.

Why bore anyone with the details?
I want to lie here and die if that is the price.
Into the mire, quicksand slipping direly,

Landing down inside, no frown in sight behind
The scowl: drowning by decision; I grip
The granules as I go down.

Not alone, sliding down into you,
The sands pulling me into you,
Your inevitable and inexorable grasp encloses me.

From the first footfalls here, this was the destination.
Yet I would not trade this damnation
For anything.