A stone in the bog

Press forward with optimistic thought and become the honed stone.

I know the bog
Have trudged through
Its thick slowing pull
How it grasps at ankle
And smiles that awry smile
With its methodical minions
Climbing up from beneath
That black watery mud
As if they were made from it
Seems to turn crimson vein
That blackish gray of pewter
Seizing the body
Like a fight with Medusa
The basilisk
Or stone giant
This battle in the bog
Wishes to still life
Pilfer your existance
With limits
Barriers
And mountainous struggles
Till you're flattened
Into a well honed stone
Stripped of unnecessary weight
So you may skip
Ever so delicately
Across the ripples
Waves
And ever growing currents
Of this bog called life.