The cliché flickering of the florescent bathroom light,
Your damp fingers wipe a line on the mirror,
And this image, of the thin naked ghost mocking your existence.
Isn't it awkward?
Blood, dripping down your knuckles,
holding the broom and butler,
you stare down,
at your own shattered reflection.
Now,you have to sweep up
the thousands pieces that you loathed so much,
and carefully dump them in the bin.
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Author:
Mohsen.k (
Offline) - Published: March 9th, 2017 01:15
- Category: Sad
- Views: 42
Offline)
Comments1
Interesting piece here indeed. I felt like reading an anthology of how we've adjusted to loathe so easily now. The emotion was captured raw and relentless.
Good depiction here poet.
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