Quicksand (Poem by Megan Foster, Sketch by Kingsley Fannon)

Quicksand

It's not the snow,

Or the fluorescent glow,
As it radiates off the mountains,
It's not the satisfying palette
Of blues, greens, and white,
It's that ghostly invitation to disappear,
To wander outdoors,
Embrace the elements,
To be swallowed,
In the mouth of it all.
I press my nose against the glass,
The chill, a fresh change of pace.
The pine trees, their dusting of snow,
Drawing me closer,
Pulling me away,
Relieving all of my innocence.
Some may call it wanderlust,
Others just say I’m crazy,
But I can't shake the feeling
That something is drawing me,
Pulling me, begging me,
To crawl into its mouth,
I’ll let it drag me along its teeth.
I'll let it lure me past its tongue.