A Well
A Well
Deep down into the earth there is a well, a well that has cold clear taverns of crisp clean water. A well that sunk below all silt, condensed between the levels of soil. Density factoring into the weight of water with minerals that matter to moisten the ground. A well where dark dwelling life flourishes to reach up and live. The well of a spring of life that is the point the center to be pictured and seen. Imagine with the minds vision this gloomy luminescent scene depicted. Through the useful imagery of the senses feeling the consuming chill of the air. In this well where the flowing water is heard, gurgling, swishing over pebbles and stones. Rocks cavernous looming presence of living moss all around. The feeling of the slick covered slabs where each step is a treacherous possible slip to fall into the crevice where the rivers well flows. That is where the bottom of the wells path begins to lose the light. Where the torrential rain enters to flood the cascading precipices up above. Shaping and creating waterfalls of ferocious velocity that tears all foothold. Washing and slickening the surfaces until all is swept away. Downward sliding slicing on sharp rock scraping into the flesh a searing reminder of an uncontrollable fall. Into the coldness of the wells spring where the rip currents mixed with mudslides cover you until you sink. The pressure from the water the soil of the earth all pressed heavily surrounding shock enters. Reality of the deep well that a mind stays trapped with an analogy of where my minds been at. When it comes to my writer how do I spark a flame with liquid all around. Drying the time that takes the ice chiseled mindscape to settle down. To find that rock to cling to and save my moments in mind that I write now a days. This is just me when I feel stuck imagining where my life has ended up. With more storms prepared to strike without a doubt it is a cycle of life. Weather to track as well as moods that shift. Life trickling upwardly evaporates as the growth through the earth and soil drains. Withers are the crumpled shapes of the aging short spans of life vegetation takes. To witness the blooming and decomposition through time. Dehydrated are my days where I find it difficult to write. A well should be close to keep me on track. Not to feel in the lowest of pits slipping rather to make the attempts to climb out. This is one way I am seeking to drift with what I have fallen within. A tiring whirlpool of treading the surface of truth. Bobbing head above water gasping echoless voice of the lonely trapped within myself. Searching for a helpful hand that I may grab hold and take flight. To lift me out of my quicksand of doubt and up to the level where instead of typing words out I may utilize my mouth. To speak to stand against and shout out. I am alive and well in here… My own version of small town hell.
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