The Well

There is a glass

Towering above,

Perfectly centered in

The middle of the table—

An oasis—

Dwelling among desiccated

Mahogany;

Its depths make

Lustrous the hues of

Worn magnificence

Cracked seams

Creaking joints

Bowing under sleight weight.

Ripples trembling

Across the water’s surface,

Unceasing miniscule wave;

Despite breaths caught

Fluids quake:

Spillover imminent.

I am parched

But the vessel

Tastes of ocean,

Sea spray,

The collective flow of agony…

Personal anguish,

Well of tears.

Shall we drink

To brighter times

The illusion buried in

Salty deeps

Or dive in

Wallowing among

The slosh and slap

Sinking beneath

Undulating aqueous mass

Questing for meaning,

Grasping at the rim: that

Continuous circle,

Repetitious pain.

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