The Well
Sometimes I reach into the well,
My hand covered, heavy as if it were tar
a vanta black one could get lost in its darkness,
I hand in hand pull up what lies below,
The grip grimy yet desperate
holding tight
like a vice,
A hand rises pale white
as if its life has been sapped dry,
The well’s dark water beads as it rolls down the hand,
As if to pull it back down
heavy like tar,
Yet I pull
I pull and pull,
And a face emerges,
Baring resemblance, yet pale as a ghost,
Carrying a smile indiscriminate from a grimace,
So I ask why,
Why,
And then, when…,
I let go.