The buckets are now full,
The fresh spring water
I'd brought up from beneath the earth, spent
I got back so much knowledge and so little hope.
For those holding tools
Tend to push them inwards.
How many moments I've spent
Year after year
Wasting my breath, my lungs -
These toxins fit this feedback,
A balanced palette
All ash greys and bruised browns
The reach of my arms into the future
Now bound by
Bureaucratic scripture,
Held down by the sickness
Inescapable work, this life
I want only to truly clean
My desires so invisible
In this poisoned sea
Maybe this was intentional,
Maybe I was shown the worst
So I could accept our extinction
In these inevitable times.
🎨/📷 by John Everett Millais, Ophelia, 1851-52