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“But Sir, you don’t have a rope or a bucket…and this well is very deep.”

Head thrown against palm

Crippled by a thin crisp dryness

Wrapped up in thick layers of self

Soul drenched in weariness

Uncorked and lying in the dust

Choking on particles of in-turned hatred

Throbbing temples beat to doubt’s tempo

Disconnected and pulling loose

Frayed nerves, irregular beat

Fibers screaming, muscles revolting

Filled by heavy clods of empty disdain

From the depths of my pain

I am accustomed to drinking alone

 Never found a broth to staunch this thirst

Can words fill the space carved by time?

or Love mutate this hollow self?