Glass Half Full

I have reached down deep. So deep that the coolness of the spring began to sting my fingertips. Tracing ripples and waves. So deep that my warm tears become dew. These tears became the stains of sorrow. There’s no staining of this well water. Cold. Blue. Dripping. Wet. Water. I have reached down deep. So deep that the coolness of the spring began to sting my fingertips.

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