The Swamp, The Deluge
Its secret voice, in harsh creaks.
The spirits shift, and toss and turn
I feel them move, yet none can see.
The air grows cold, my breath goes short
I cannot stand to stay at home.
I see hundreds of people every way
They seemingly drift, forever dazed
To me their thoughts are not their own
Their anger, agony, jealousy.
It feels hot on my mind and cold all alone
I cannot stand to be this close
Ancient antique rocking chair,
Humming the void’s eternal buzz
An empty space now left behind,
Where the old woman once sat
Until Death gripped her tight and pulled her down
And I could feel the woman drown
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This a poem about being overwhelmed by all the stimuli that surround one everyday. The narrator takes all these stimuli as they feel trapped and cannot stand to be close to people or stay at home. And then anxious thoughts take over in the last stanza and the narrator is overwhelmed by the spot where someone died.