Deep, deep, deep.
Looking at the bottom of rocks
I stand, I lie,
Depressed,
Pressed down
As if by giant feet,
Defeated.
Crawling through my dirt
I have gold in my hand.
My tunnel branches,
Two dark unknown vacancies
Open up before me.
I sit, sit
and think, ponder.
One way I leave my gold,
The other, I am left by it.
With no turning back,
I don't want either,
yet as I wait
I travel down one.
With my silent voice
I change directions
And journey down the opposite,
Feeling my way
Ready to trip and fall,
To accidentally crush my gold --
My most precious possession --
Slowly,
In the deep.
The dark deep.

19 Mar 1989