The well of dreams draws on ones soul
Infinite in its purpose sublime in its attack
The is no reference for understanding, no circumstance defined

He stares into its watery depth devoid of anything
except the liquid memories that assails him daily
he lowers the bucket hoping desperately to fill the thirst
shoulders tighten with the tension of anticipation
lips part slightly preparing for the rush of the flow

The bucket comes up empty
And the reality of it all, hits him
There is no bucket, there is no well
There is only
dust,
silence
and the eventual death
that comes in many disguises