I went up to the well,
blueberry braids bouncing against my back,
my king’s sun-scorched hands around my ink-stained palms.
We let go,
the metal pail descending until it broke the stillness with a splash
and winding–cranking, we drew the water up into the atmosphere.
He dumped the water over his head
we descended into the unknown,
and he fell down,
the shattering of his skull.
Strawberry stains against his locks.
My raspberry lips open to scream,
to utter the deathcall
as I tumble after,
plummeting to him, to the fragmented crown below.
Boulder that would be his stone,
I weep against waiting for my last
as the moon descends to blanket us.
Thank you for reading and sharing your thoughts with me in the comments below.
” Me and the pen, we are one. If its ink would cease to flow, my ink would cease to flow.”