IMG_4842 // By Robert Guimont
The swamp holds mysteries,
Silence within its barren domain.
Eyes peek through the sheer surface,
Hinting at the dangers lurking below.
Lacking is the bird’s song of twilight.
Missing is the rustle through the brush.
Silence holds us in its thrall,
Cold fingers clasping around my neck.
Humid air coats my mottled body,
Mutilated by blood-thirsty mosquitoes.
The path teases my mind’s eye,
Offering a way out of this hellhole.
I hack at the dried branches,
Threatening to leave me with one eye.
I’ve reached the end of my journey
As my feet sink in the quicksand of despair.
Lines like the stroke
of a paint brush.
Colors to absorb the light.
Fragrance to enhance the tale.
Beauty never to be duplicated.