Dropped on the Head

Water drops, hanging upside down from the ceiling- threatening to take their 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 threads in walls. 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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