How effortless it is to find your self in brackish waters,
that dead zone of intermixed indifference.
Where it’s impossible to live given the waters in which you’ve come,
impossible to grow given the waters you need.
Stranded with muddled behavior, all thriving succumbs.
There you’ll find yourself in hostile conditions;
when you’ve abandoned your high heading.
Floating then like a cork on the sea,
and, the tide of tradition is so strong;
Now, you’re caught in the current you struggled to leave.
Yet, even the tide has a master;
So, you make a simple pivot,
a backwater nod of farewell to the former misgivings.
The drag of that apathetic juncture is beat;
You’re back on course for the font of the living.