Pits of mist that steal his wits,

Warring worlds that churn beyond.

Fingers reach, but merely linger—

Too deep he sinks within the pond.

Reaching out to grasp and hold

A branch of brown, decayed with mold.

It twists and lifts—he stays adrift,

Straining, groaning, fighting cold.

A land of sand surrounds the man.

He tries, he cries, the waters rise—

His neck, his mouth, his nose, his eyes.

His grip then slips—a dire trip.

He tried and tried...

Until he died.