Weeds underwater,
reeds in the flow.
Firmly anchored
in the mud.
Going nowhere, at the same time
swirling.
Around and around.
Holding ground.
The dance of lovers engulfed,
deeply intertwined.
We watch as if it wasn't.
We wish as if it were.
The current never stops pressing,
always flowing.
One way.
The edges begin to blur,
the blades dull.
One gives and they all go,
freed of the mud.
Swirling
past the shores of time.
Finally,
holding on to nothing at all.