black treacle trapped in tar pits
dripping from a mastiff's jowls, or
one thousand million foolish houseflies
drowning in a single paper trap, maybe
a sprawling anti-Elysia, the hunting ground
for our shadows to roam while we sleep.
A well built by some sweaty, laboring God
that we merely see the bottom of.
But what matters of its dark?
A sky stretches out untouchable
and cares not what lies beneath.