The Drowning

My Father told me

That drowning was the nicest  of the ill fates a man could face

I spent my young years

Pondering how knowing you are going under

Is a kind and gentle death.

 

But now I am in my twenties

And my mouth is vaguely above the surface

Of my own misery

I’ve come to learn that one isn’t always at sea when

They are overwhelmed by the waves.

 

 

We are sometimes unaware

We are under the surface

Until we try to breathe,

Until we break free

And feel the air on our face again.

 

I’ve become a master

Of holding my breath

When I am

Lost at sea.

 

 

K. Thwaites

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