The Mysterious Well

 

(A lone voice whispers)

There's a grand old well that I sometimes visit 

In strange lucid dreams

When Mother Midnight sweetly calls

My lonely soul out to play

With her golden diamond-encrusted whistle

For she is so uncivil

And all the silver stars gleam 

In hungry anticipation 

I always see the walls of the well 

As they seem to be crumbling away but never do 

All dull and painfully grey

As it sits like a tired old King 

On a tattered throne 

Made of brown leaves

Which surround him 

Like a sea of grinning thieves

Climbing like former lovers across its form

Wild Morning-Glory sleeps like a tired old soldier 

Surveying the corn

Watching Creeping Charlie advancing 

With a little shimmer and dance

When I walk the path of the One

To that well on the edges of time

When the moon is hiding and clouds look on 

Like drunken fools

When silence fills the very air

The dire aroma of loss and decay invariably arises

Once lost things always appear 

In all shapes and different sizes

Like a visiting country fair 

But nothing stirs in the cornfield before me

For nothing ever dares

And when I reach the mighty King on the Hill

The ruler of all 

Before I swallow my own red pill

And look into his gaping soul

All I can see is my heart's own watering hole

A darken wet place filled with now unwanted memories

I'm always drawn to

When my higher self loses its self-control

On its wet surface 

Lay old photographs

Undulating and floating images of

People 

Places

Chances and

Moments 

All moving in unison

In perpetual silence

As I watch and stare

A red and yellow flame eternally appears and they all burn 

Forming a sensational burning red heart

A stunning piece of spiritual art

And as I leave

Grieving 

Deep down inside

Walking lonely 

Like a soldier to a cold unwarranted post

Back to the shimmering Blue Portal

Waiting quietly to return me to the land of the living

Away from all these creeping bold ghosts

My mystical doorway home

So I can reflect and maybe atone

The King of the Hill always seems to whisper before I disappear 

Will you learn this time or will more memories

Need to go past the point of no return 

Before God blows

Calling you home

On his beautiful French golden Horn.......

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Copyright John Duffy