Sorrow is a well. How absurd that this a metaphor for depth. In conversation, I say proudly, I have never written of lovers. I refuse to put them into my poems. The truth is, I can't speak of horses or of certain pastels without flinching. "Objects bring pain when associated with a particular person." (Not the thing, but the person behind it. Not the pain, but the thing itself.) It is I. Something speaking from the darkness. The well, or sorrow, desire let down like an anchor whose earth cannot detach itself.
About the Poet:
Laura Stringfellow writes both verse and prose poetry, holds an MFA in Creative Writing, Poetry, and hails from the Southern US. Recent publications have appeared in various literary journals and magazines, including Right Hand Pointing, Clementine Unbound, Déraciné, Neologism Poetry Journal, Coffin Bell: a journal of dark literature, and Nine Muses Poetry.
Ephemeral Elegies 
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