At the bottom of a well
Filled with tapioca pudding
I contemplate past choices
While silently brooding.
There is no point recounting
The calamities that befell,
Or shady circumstances
That dropped me down this well.
Such melancholy sunshine
As ventures down this murky pit
Meanders without purpose
Until it is unlit.
The pudding’s thick and tepid.
The sickly air is denser still.
I slog around in circles,
I’ve endless time to kill.
High above my wallowing,
Faint voices murmur their concern.
They offer some assistance
To speed my safe return.
“Return to what?” I question,
As I dismiss their promised aid:
This absurd abyss embraces
The nothing that I’ve made.
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