in a world where everyone seemingly has something to say about everything, and the conversations go back and forth, I've been left to write
pinhole in a plastic cup
subtle
unnoticed
until lost hopes pool at its base
and the solid surface gets murky
contents drained
gutted
an instance at a time
but no one notices
until it’s all bled out
and the imbalance
weighs heavy on the framework
Leave a comment | tags: Dying, Leaking, Time | posted in ... poetry
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