The Dead Lake

I stand here alone,
Hovering over the edge.
My fear chatters my bones,
But I push on because of the pledge.

I see the dirty grime,
Hovering over the top.
I think of how it should be a crime.
I think of how I should stop.

I hear the water slowly slapping
In a rhythm on the dirty rocks.
It reminds me of the same water once trapping
Me, in what seemed like a large, wet box.

I feel the stale air greeting my bare face.
It slowly twirls my hair.
It seems to have much grace,
Even though it feels as though it could tear.

I taste the metallic melted material,
That fills inside my mouth.
It comes from the smell of something bacterial,
In these dilapidated waters of the south.

I smell the fish carcasses,
That fills the empty lake.
I blame all of this on Marcus’s,
Idea of not allowing my fear to overtake.

How does all of this seem fair?
It would be easier if the lake was still crystal blue.
I guess I gave the life of the water a scare,
For it lost its life as my fear grew.

I see the sky darkening.
My chance to jump slims.
But still my body stays lingering;
My fear still consumes my limbs.

I hear my breath lose its steady pace,
As time seems to slow.
I want to make the memory efface,
But I can’t make myself not know.

I touch my drenched hair,
That is now plastered to my forehead with sweat.
I push it away with care,
And close my eyes to erase all of my frets.

I part my lips,
Hoping to get a deep, clean breath.
But instead I taste small slips,
Of what could only be death.

I quickly shut my trap,
And zoom in on the smells afar.
But the smell of water surrounds me with emotional slaps,
Opening all of healed scars.

Not having any other way to stall,
I jump and again close my eyes.
Soon I’m surrounded in the water walls,
And then emerge, to my surprise.

Feeling a sudden burst of confidence,
I swim slowly in the dirty water.
But when I touch land, I tense.
Water no longer seems like a slaughter.