Poetry:
All The Wells
All the wells run deep and deathly cold beneath our feet,
Covered with slabs of immobile concrete bound in iron.
Locked in metaphor, the keys, the long-lost keys, patrimonially received,
Hid in guilty ignorance until the age of accountability overtook us.
Down our minds flailed spine first, legs and arms and head following,
Slicing the pitch-black slimy night, reaching for finger-holds only to find
Imagination’s realities at the bottom thrive in aqueous fear inexpiable.
Image courtesy of Jessica McWilliams | Kirkwood Communiqué
Categories: Art & Life, Creative Writing
