Quicksand

The thousand cries,
Of memory,
Pester me,
As I ride,
Through,
Dark mentality.

The horse foams,
Sweats,
Eyes rolling,
Ready,
To collapse.

And when it does,
The rash rider,
Is thoroughly thrown,
Off his leather throne,
Into the suckling swamp,
That awaits,
Like a patient cannibal.

The sands,
Suck,
And overpower,
The rider,
In his darkest hour,
Who screams naively,
In a child's,
Pitched voice.

Grained fingers,
Grasp living flesh,
Savoring,
And rise rise rise,
Drowning out,
Pleas for mercy.

Yet in my last moments,
Of desperate consciousness,
I glimpse,
A friendly rope,
Through,
The adrenaline haze.

My slimy hands grasp,
The taut rope,
And I am pulled,
From the raging mire.