Wednesday, May 5, 2010

Well Being - a revision 5/27/10

I will not claim I live life well;
I spill my soul most wastefully.

Water drilled too deep--bored through;
refilled with tears,  poured cyclically.

When iced, I die a hardened death,
a frieze of stone in bas-relief.

Room temperature leaves wish-washed stains,
wooden hearts absorb, reveal...

repressed, now venting, steam escapes.

Drought appears with growing thirst;
quenched when springs afar are drawn.

Filtered, fresh, my hope renews,
filled to the brim, with spillways placed.

Take my filtered offerings--drink!
My soul-well springs and lives life new.

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