The stories hung heavy on the park’s edge

The stories hung heavy on the park’s edge,

quicksand traps, sticky and silent killers.

I stood frozen once, watching the mud breathe,

a dark pit waiting to claim me whole.

Today, one foot slipped in, cold and wet,

not swallowing, just teasing, a brief clutch.

The earth gripped slow, then let go,

a mocking touch I wasn’t ready for.

Fear was a ghost I carried long after,

tied to stories, shadows, and wet cold earth.

Mud is just mud, it doesn’t wait or watch,

just presses, heavy and indifferent,

a weight that leaves its mark,

but never pulls under.

Still, I glance back,

a child’s dread tangled in the gray sky,

frozen on the edge,

not quite ready to step free.