The Well of Hope

Do not forget the Inky well,

I painted with the swell,

Of my pot of Khajol,

Defining the eye,

That you look within,

And seem to loose your grip,

With no choice at all,

But to surrender and fall.

With Butterflies,

That flutter by,

You cling to kites,

And reach for Cupid,

But the cherub shoots you down…

So further you fall,

And you begin to call,

To your old Friend the moon,

Who’s reflection you break,

As it shatters in splashes,

You sink into the ink,

The darkness makes you blink,

It makes you cough and spit.

But as you catch your breathe,

And wonder what’s next,

You surface to the top,

Only to tread the inky black,

And wait for God knows what.

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