The Well

tears well
buckets descend
dreams walk the bridge
between psyche and sunrise

I am tired of the surface
the mundane, the conveyer belt of routine
to do, to do, to do
check, check, check

fashion me a bucket
slip me into a spate of tears
drop me below night’s horizon
into the star-studded sea
where I will sink, then dissolve
into a timeless remembering
of origins and being
and sweet, deep return

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Essays ~ Memoir ~ Poetry ~ Photos ~ Repeat

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Lyndon

Lyndon

Essays ~ Memoir ~ Poetry ~ Photos ~ Repeat

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