They say that quicksand
Only tightens its grip
When you start to struggle upwards
That said - it seems to me
That you could sink quite slowly
And only notice when you try to rise
From this I can surmise
That quicksand must be warm
Blood-heat, really
There must be some comfort
In being so enveloped
And the first warning signs dependent
On your day-to-day.
Some may shudder at slowing feet
Others at the numbness of knees
You might take fright at the clasp
Around your waist
The compression of chest
The tightening of your windpipe
Or be one of those who only sees
When they've gone blind.
Today it was the loss of hands
That brought home my fate
Nearly too late,
I'm flailing calmly,
Grasping at branches,
Conjuring the memory
Of solid land
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