I wonder why my writing well went dry?
Before it was so deliciously fragrant,
With well thought out, landscaped stones.
A little tin cup lay beside for quick droughts.
Any thirsty person was welcome.
The sweet grass always made me a little hungry
and feel well.
Shattered to hell.
With cannons resurrected from olden days.
Rendering it bare and impotent, desolate.
It'll take days and months,
Of trudging on the black ice to get more water.
Oh, my Father!