Sinking Memories

I found a book in the attic, dust thick,

the pages curling like a child’s crayon trick,

where pictures of swamps twisted wide and deep,

invoking old fears that still make me weep.

The stories told of sinking, panic and dread,

a child lost in quicksand, where thoughts danced in red,

like shadows that whispered of being consumed,

a fight against gravity, a heart’s quiet doom.

I remember the feeling, that terror so raw,

how every step forward was pulled back by a claw,

a grip of the ground, a warning sign loud—

like moving through syrup beneath a dark cloud.

But reality crept in with its quieter song,

that quicksand is softer, not always so strong,

that fear of the unknown often holds tight,

where the terror of childhood and truth might just bite.