Veiled

The river might as well be oil
I will not be swimming in it.
It might hold Swans, but toil
away, ignore, it's shit.

The stream may look like powdered ink
It's foggily cold, I want to get home.
The depthless haze may stop the think
and rush of days, I am now grown.

The ragged light-dark border blurs
My need for push-bike rushing on.
Otherworld Swans make habits slur
and draw me where all cares are gone.

The front wheel wavers towards the peace
A small voice cries "You should be home."
Yet should I sit awhile, released?
At last I would not feel alone.

The veil when shared brings such sweet form
To all that I would hence become.
Yet still defences stir a storm -
I ride on by, let dreams be done.

And yet the aching pulls and bites
my spine, the veil accords
a hangman's call, and my soul fights;
Beaten off by this world's sword.

Regret anew, conformingly blind
The final threads of mist's chill pull.
In the dark, there's nothing to find
but the drowning death of being dull.