This is the crawl.
The low spot,
the mud hole.
There’s a quagmire
between every struggle upwards
and every mad descent.
This is the time
when you don’t want to wake,
you don’t want to go,
or take another step,
but you do anyway.
Fear of going on,
is hounded by fear
of staying here
and dying here.
Even when the mind
can conceive of no other,
the path goes on,
on the other side
of this bullshit,
quicksand,
cesspool.
When you have no strength left
to take another step,
and every time you do,
you’re mired in the shit;
you crawl.
Crawl.
HG – 2019
