These Are My JOTtings, Part #2

Wading Through Pluff Mud

To live this life depressed at best,
unliving in our hopeless loss
can make our days an endless test
of painting words on the daily cross.

The changes of some hoped-for goal
can make us wade through pluff mud thick.
We wonder, Could life e'er be whole?
Each wondered thought makes the heart so sick.

The pluff mud made of hopes passed o'er
sucks boot, and foot, and leg far down.
We wonder, Could we live through more?
The sinking feeling shapes our frown.

How many years will good be naught?
How many hopes will fade away?
How many times will we be taught
as mem'rie's gone, and lessons fray?

How often will Depression's wrap
become a coat of soothing Same?
How often will the searched-for map
be the voice of one Accuser's blame?

The awful stench of pluff mud "eggs"
must be swift-stanched by Earl Grey tea.
The life depressed in "living" dregs
must fight the downpull to be free.

The nevermore and prolly should
weighs heavy now on a sinking frame.
Where once was hope and often good
the mirror must give up its blame.

by Jay O’Toole
on September 6th, 2023