As I stand here in the desolate landscape of my heart and mind, I am struck with the all too familiar sound of silence.  A strong wind comes along and kicks up dust; obscuring the rigid mountain peaks in the distance, and turns the royal blue sky to an ugly shade of orange.

It hasn’t rained here for several years.  That is since the locusts came-sounding like 10,000 Apache helicopters on hot approach.  Don’t get me wrong.  Once in a blue moon, it will rain just long enough to turn the dust into a thick mud.  And by noon, the ground is as dry as a dead horse’s bones.

It seems like everything is prey for something.  I have seen rabbits eat their young just to survive.

Over yonder is a well.  Each day I wake up, I draw water from that well.  It’s the well of my emotions.  And each day, I lower the bucket down into the earth, hoping to find water-love.  But each day that passes, is another day that I have to drop the bucket deeper and deeper.  Some days, the water barely skims the bottom of the bucket.

I wonder: how long can I go on like this?  How much longer do I have?  How much longer do I have to wait before rain season comes and brings rejuvination to an otherwise forgotten heart?

A dollar bill flies bye my feet and shoots up into the air.  I catch it in mid-flight.  And smile at the irony.  Printed on the front are the words: Federal Reserve Note. 

It’s just a piece of paper.  Just a tiny piece, cut out from a slab of many other pieces with intricate designs and latin phrases.  Money printed from nothing.  Created from nothing.

My love is as counterfeit as the money in your pocket.  I am drawing off of nothing.
-Graveyard Night

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One thought on “Bottom of the Well

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