Stale Sink on a Sunday
Sink
Full of
Dirty dishes,
The tap leaks
Drip....
Drip....
Drip....
Time has never been so lucid;
Depravity etched
Inside each eyelid
As the room
Reeks
Of stale bread,
Mouth of
Sour mash
And of
Diluted
Bloody Mary's. (Ketchup vodka)
Stacks of
Self help books
Right next to
Mountains
Of unopened
Letters
Marked urgent
Or
Final notice.
I'll never read them.
The whole
World;
A tired
Entirety. (Hungover)
Gardens
Deserted,
Wilting crooked
And hunched over
From the crushing poverty.
The roaring
Of the flies
Matched by the rhythmic
Sink
Full of
Dirty dishes,
The tap leaks
Drip....
Drip....
Drip....
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Jörmundgandr
What's there to know that can't be said through my poetry? I'm a romantic.
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