Swimming in mud

I sharpen a knife that's never once drawn blood,

I built my arc, still waiting for the coming flood.

Even at high tide, I'm left swimming in mud.

Is there hope enough to stress the desires of the inferno?

Is there grace enough to combat hell's overflow?

Is there regret enough to enslave the ghost of Cicero?

Purification doesn't stop these demons from feasting on my blood.

Purging parasites from paradise only isolated innocence in the flood.

Even in the driest deserts, dunes of quicksand drag me down into the mud.

Is there strength enough to outlast the undertow?

Is there stamina enough to go until tomorrow?

Is there will enough to power through the sorrow?

I cut down to the bone, but not to draw blood.

I tear up, cry, sob, wail, it reflects an inner flood.

I know I don't belong here, swimming in mud.