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I, THE POISONED WELL

By Charles Broughton



Come take a sip

from I, the poisoned well.

Toss the bucket

into my cobblestone maw

and quench the pain

with my elixir of love

like drinking honey

suckled from the

wrinkled dugs of Christ.

 

Rest your head on my lip

and listen for the pitter patter whispers

crawling up my throat

to remind you that

it’s okay it’s okay it’s okay.

 

Does a well water

when there’s no one to drink it?

If only you could bottle me up

and take me with you.

 

Don’t drink me all at once.

I am the oasis until

the parched are no more

having sucked and lapped

me dry save the poison

that coagulates where once

compassion lay for the thirsty.

 

But I’m fixed to this infection

of involuntary apathy

with nothing to offer

save a glass of water.


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