The well is deep, the rung is steep,
I kneel where shadows waver, bend.
Hands clutch the wetness, fern-draped stone,
the water laughs, the echo bends.
Is it me, the gleaming blur below?
The rippled mockery of want, of me?
Or something—hidden glass, perhaps a pearl,
brushed with breath too sharp to see?
The droplet spins; the truth retreats,
its face obscured by mercy’s veil.
A quartz? A flash of bone unearthed?
The world gulps back its buried tales.
I linger, swallowed by reflection’s joke,
a slip of light misplaced, erased.
The whiteness lives where eyes can’t go,
lost but shimmering, never owned.