This has been a pretty rough week for writing…but I’ve been doing it! Most, way too personal to share as I make efforts to get the new house and a fresh start all in order. A few months down the road, when I look back to these writes and laugh, then maybe I will be confident enough to share them, but until then, I’ll keep to more imaginative efforts. So, for this week’s One Shot Wednesday over at One Stop Poetry, I present to you…
The Wishing Well
It’s dark in here…
So dark, these eyes have no hope of adjusting.
No sudden breaks in the black,
No secret streams of sunshine
To awaken the shadows to dance.
There will be no tricks played upon these eyes.
It’s damp in here…
So damp this skin has been roughened with constant goosebumps.
Surely blue, if it could be seen.
A constant drip, echoes off the cold walls
So cold they could be stone,
With its ancient map of cracked and slimy grooves
Tricking my numb fingers
As my brain pushes itself to make sense of this imprisonment
Wall to wall, I walk in darkness
No more than ten or twelve feet
Is my best blind man’s guess.
My feet are bare, cold, numb like my fingers
I can smell the pools of stagnant liquid
Before they swell up and over my toes
Thick and slimy, like the walls.
In the blackness, the aches and pains are my body
In the darkness, I can see no wound to place the blame upon
And with no light to decipher its source, it still remains pain
At the back of my neck there is something
Blood, mud, something,
Dried, caked and itching
Touched but once, for fear of what the scraping and scratching might reveal
All is silent, save for the drip
The constant, numbing, drip
Echoes, growing louder in a mind pushed too far.
Cold, childlike fists, balled in rage, pushing hard against closed eyelids
And there is relief, sudden, in the bursts of running color.
But there is pain there too.
Voice, parched, dry, quenched now
As dehydration comes quicker with each pristine tear
No memory, no escape,
Is this to be my fate?
My ears are alive with fire, burning as senses become assaulted
Drowning in the chalkboard sound
Stone against stone
And a waxing slip of light appears above me
Growing larger, eyes now too burning
Fighting to adjust…blinded in the purity of white fire
Illuminating my cell, my jail, my cage
And then…a silhouette
Broad shoulders, a head, perhaps misshapen
And it blocks the light
Extinguishes the fire
And once again
I fall back to darkness.