Rock (Poetry)

I’m a rock in the dark swirling water —
half-drowned in the chill of its grip
way out in the thick of its turmoil
and far from the sheltering bank.

The currents are cruel in their passing —
they tug at me — batter and barge
as I hunch — growing smaller and older
jutting corners worn smooth and resigned

to the gradual erosion — no pity
from the torrent — the wild surging throng
insensitive — life’s a rough river
that worries at rocks ’til they’re gone.