Point Being…

what point, that small scratch
a little skin broken & blackened
cajun or crushed blood
none could tell, but blackened

the ice mesh covering just enough
that life was just a tremble
cuddling death, and what a warmth
it is, or is it so cold it stings?

my eyes have forgotten the greenery,
the way voices erode quickest, but
the notes remain, playing overtures in my mind
plinking the little metal teeth
its a stone scraped—

wishing wells dry by middle age
some by filling the thirst
some by drought
so pull the bucket while the water remains
pull it until the well is drained


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