The Bottom Of A Well.

 

i run my hands along the wall

where the moss grows thicker

and the damp dirt

finds its way

under my fingernails

as i twirl.

 

in circles i go,

at the bottom of a well

too deep to climb out of –

my shoes scuffing the edges

where my sight

has not adjusted.

 

i didn’t think i’d find myself here

circling the same path

a thousand times over,

but as i look up at the people above

as they wonder how i got here

i decide i don’t mind.

 

it wasn’t my intention

to be in the damp and dark,

and yet as i look up

into the eyes of those trying to save me,

i realise i don’t want

to be up there with them.

 

maybe it’s madness

to want to be in the dark,

alone and without others,

but

the darkness isn’t so scary

on the inside looking out.

 

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