Caught

Agape and gasping
as a freshly caught fish
flung roughly to the grassy bank
comfortable but nonetheless dying
my sweating skin dries,
a sickly sweet pungency
organic, rotting
my crucial atmosphere so close,
parallel, but
a fathomless chasm distant.


I lose my precious sense of self,
dirt and decay seeps into pores
then my path appears,
but palpable confusion
wracking my brain,
spins me like a top,
the road ahead
lush with opportunities
beckons with a ring finger's promise,
but the form of a harlot



© Graham Sherwood 11/2015