The Well
It’s dark here, wet
with the scent of mold.
I’ve been here long years.
I live on treacle and dreams.
If you could but lower
a rope with a swing
and drag me upwards,
that would be nice.
The shines once a day,
for an hour. Your
face,
a white moon peering down.
My jailor, my lover.
Eyes following,
you drop crackers and jugs
of water in a basket,
disappearing into the depths.
So tired of living in this well.
If you could call it living,
which I don’t.
Yesterday, you set boards
against the side.
Tomorrow
it will be hammer and nails.
I must get out.
My fingers touch the ledge
of stones, just out of reach.
A sharp tug is all it takes.
Then you’ll be down here
with me.
Will you be surprised
when I use your dead body
for a footstool?
© Anne Westlund
prompt: write a message poem
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