Not Too Poetry

Mostly, the effort of not thinking is beyond me.
It takes concentration that I cannot summon –
but on occasion it is simply effortless
and I grasp the emptiness
as easily as the wet sand clutched at low tide,
not knowing what flotsam I hold
or for how long before the next wave
robs me of its distraction.

Mostly, the effort of sleep confounds me.
It demands a degree of focus
far below my charted soundings
and I flounder unsure of my bearings,
dangerously out of my depth
and unable to fathom any hope
of bedrock and so I settle my gaze
on the White Shores of the unknown.

Mostly, the effort of dying exhausts me.
But the eddies wash me ashore
exhorting me to make more serious
endeavours to craft a fitting ferryboat,
so I follow the white between the wrecks
until I find a half-recalled soundtrack
catching the offshore wind that
takes me back just before I wake.