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A glossy drop of water fell from the tap.
     Click. Clock.
Over top abandoned dishes disheveled, untouched,
They trickle down plates swallowed, sopped of such
     Methodical, miserable echoes,
Like needles,
     Pricked. Plucked away from summer sun.
To be alone, the bitter shock,
Taking in those golden threads,
Now far locked.
     Gone.
     That ticking clock,
     God! Make it stop.
He took a silver plate from the top.
Down the drain, the water sloshed,
     And she fell into the inner workings of it all.
©2008-2009 ~wintersilk
:iconwintersilk:

Author's Comments

Just passing time. Slow shift tonight.

Comments


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:iconchasethisshotoffear:
I really like this, the words are compelling.
:iconwintersilk:
Thanks!

--
"In the middle of summer,
All was golden in the sky,
All was golden when the day met the night."

- Panic! At the Disco, "When the Day Met the Night"
:iconlockhiminacage:
I love it. I wish I could right poetry.
It really sets the scene. :D
:iconwintersilk:
Aw! Thank you so much!

--
"In the middle of summer,
All was golden in the sky,
All was golden when the day met the night."

- Panic! At the Disco, "When the Day Met the Night"

Details

April 10, 2008
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