Wellspring: There is a silent, hollow howling well within me A pit vast and deep with always room for more, A chasm that is packed full, to beyond bursting, With everyone thing and everyone I've ever felt and loved. It swallows every good thing, along with the bad, Trading all my memories for apathy, like a spiteful alchemist of old, Transmuting lead from gold. It is an unbearable weight, The world grinding my down, digging into my bones, As Atlas adds his strength to Gaia's weight, Trying to crush me into the same nothing as the well. I do not know how to stop. I've forgotten how to feel. I have spent too long upon this silent sea, And now the land is unfit for me. I hobble and wobble, like a wounded sailor drunk with pride. The great wonders do nothing to sir my cage'd heart, No fiction brings me tears nor joy, No comfort found in games nor toys, Even the Green has to tricks it might employ. So I march on. I do what I can, Where I can. I struggle to take my own advise. I do not acknowledge the stress. Building like a boiler set to blow. I ignore the steam-whistle's howling grow. I write this. And the well eats it up. And is still empty.
