tori amos sounds like a girl
trapped in a well
one monday morning
paper cup shaped well
filled with tons of coffee grains
only her mouth and nostrils could be seen
blabbering about the cornflake girl
and the blackest black ocean
where shattered hearts and broken whims
get dipped
like teabags
up and down they blot
up and down they stain
cascading
mellifluous
a whisper
from an unseen lover
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