As the shark that must keep swimming
(yes, I know that is a fable),
so I could not breathe were I
motionless, no longer able
to move forward. Soon enough comes
rest and then we move no more,
strive no longer. In its time,
in its time, and not before,
shall I so rest. A mindless hunger
drives the shark: to eat, to mate,
to continue. That is all.
My seas are not so clear. My fate
is in these currents, bearing me
across the days I may not number.
No scent of blood has kept me swimming,
drawn me from the shores of slumber
I so fear; no, naught but my own
need to span the night, complete
this journey, swim till there is no
more need. Swim on till each defeat
and victory has faded, slipped
beyond the grasp of all the fates,
into dark, elusive depths,
and only an end awaits.
Stephen Brooke ©2016
This is one of those poems where the words moved it along more than any concept or idea I might have had. Structured poetry, especially rhymed poetry, can be like that.