I jumped down a well last spring.
It's been almost a year, and--nothing.
Maybe I shouldn't speak too soon.
Maybe I shouldn't speak at all, hate to hear
"I can't do it . . . can't do it . . . do it . . ."
ricochet stone wall to wall.

Used to believe water held light, but
the deeper you go the darker you know
it gets cold, and no light comes from above.
In your own tunnel you have to own your own light,
have to be your own light.
It all has to come from within.

Beginning to dig as a kid, down to China,
I thought, "Impossible to lose your way
on such a straight shot . . ."
But distance into the earth becomes heat; heat soon breeds confusion. I am young,
disoriented en route to the Orient.

- K. Brooke Arnold


send me your poem, fiction. any kind. any style. anything. and let me know how you'd like to be credited. 

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