Beneath the clear water
The filthy mud from deep under stirs;
Slowly but surely ...
Diffusing, pervading, clouding.
The hanging willow branches
Flutters in a seemingly harmless breeze;
In the grip of the unseen ...
Unsure, aimless, numb.
How many ways can one turn ?
Which is the way to happiness ...
or should the damned question be
Which is the way out ?