The Child in the Well

The Child in the Well I dreamt of falling down a well, A narrow tube beneath the earth, Its walls were slick with secret moss, Its breath was damp with ancient birth. The stones were cold, they whispered low, Of lives once lost, of waters deep, Each echo curled like memory’s hand, And pulled me further in my sleep. The dark was not just empty night, It pulsed, it hummed, it seemed to know, That I had come to seek some truth, Buried in the soil below. My fingers brushed against the slime, My heartbeat hammered, sharp and fast, The well became a throat of time, A tunnel to a buried past. And then— A flicker, faint, a trembling light, No lantern flame, no earthly spark, But soft as breath, it shimmered still, A candle glowing in the dark. There sat a child with hollow eyes, Bare feet upon the stony floor, Its lips were pale, its hands were clasped, As if it prayed for something more. It did not cry, it did not smile, It only looked with gaze so wide, That I could feel my spirit bend, As though I’d met my younger side. “What are you?” I asked the shade, “Why do you haunt this place of dread? Are you a ghost that time forgot, Or just a dream inside my