Roaring Forties

The skies are blue with speckles of white clouds.

The birds are gliding in circles, crying out their joy aloud.

On the wall scrambled spiders of all kinds.

Up and down the well they go, looking for prey to find.

Beneath me, lies water still, deep, dark and cold.

At the bottom, are what’s left of the dead, I was told.

I have been here clinging on to the walls for time to pass.

Hanging on dearly to safety for as long as it last.

I want to reach out for the skies but how do I let go.

For I may fall into the water and may never rise from below.

Sometimes the skies turns grey and the rains comes pouring down.

The waters surges upwards and many will be drowned.

I have been safe all this while as the water hasn’t reached me.

But I am stuck to the walls and am never really free.

Do I let go and reached for the skies where the birds fly.

Or do I stay where I am safe until the day I die.