sitting
at the bottom
of a well

everything looks so small from down here.

as a close acquaintance to nothing
I can tell you that time is relative to
the steps I take towards a biological death
but not the wrath and reaping in-depth
well-lit and liked
by a narrow spoonful of silver moonlight.
were it so easy to call it
death
but down here time remains bereft

cobblestones worn smooth
but in an alien way
unfamiliar to the clapping feet and
people bustling day by day in the streets
however made home by my anxious
wringing hands
chasing and lapsing
a trauma that ive been told
I'm not allowed to have
but this thermite sparks regardless:
and like the cookbooks sain
it chews with ease through whittled white bone
through all the terse lipped,
cursed boiled meat I am
and for this damage, im to blame.
barren, worn seamless
a smooth circle
smooth as daylight

sitting
at the bottom
of a well

Sunday service ringing its seven iron hells
derided the pagan tongues that forked:
willingly split into the spine of books
upon which your prophets wrote
and still I lie, as the water chokes

Bloated I may be
no more toxic than the leaden pails
by which I am drunk , so greedily
piece by piece , eroded
by the lapping tongues, all out at once
they flick
"Heretic,"
yet to my glazen eyes
they drink, and drink.

sitting
at the bottom
of a well

smaller than ive ever been
and I pray daily
tho smaller
i am never less
for peace and penance
i acquiesce
and look to me
tho unslain
i rest.

;