Dropped on the Head

Water drops, hanging upside down from the ceiling- threatening to take their own lives- ready to join the others who plunged and crashed without a sound. No, they don’t breathe through their stomachs; they aren’t geckos. They are eager to surrender, to walk through the threads of the wall. But, they belong here in my world. Abandoned by the Sea and the poor man’s cup- the parched drops wait for a sign. We are tied by the deceased laws of Comradeship- starved of vowels; condemned to practice the Literature of Silence.

I could’ve cured them with my tongue; I could’ve fought to win their souls back from the impregnable air. Alas! Light got to them first. On the first exposure, they shivered and slowly hastened to conquer the silhouette of a continent. The defeat was imminent, the stage was set, and behind the curtain, there stood a one-armed soldier saluting the Fallen General.


Published by: flatlined84

A thinker outside the quarantine zone. The words on this blog will assault your senses, would make you curse in the holy name of Bard. If that's not enough, leave a piece of your mind in the comments section- the writer is on the dole and is always hungry.

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