In the hush before dawn, the poet’s desk waits — ink, paper, and silence mingling with the faint hum of a song. “Last Rites” plays softly, and the night’s spell lingers just long enough to ask: how deep is my well?
How Deep Is My Well
Inside my pastel grey cell,
where the poet’s pencils dwell,
I stumbled over the inkwell
and felt a dank, dark swell
run down my silk lapel.
“Help!” I yell.
My cocoon’s inner shell
has become as black as hell.
“Please! Ring the hotel bell
Perhaps the night-shift personnel
will know how to quell
this bewitching writer’s spell.”
From here, the ink settles… and this song becomes the last whisper of the night.
Ivor Steven © September 2026
Ivor.Plumber/Poet 