Spiraling fabric
Wound around and around
Spinning itself until its line comes to an end
Catered to the comfortability of on dragging feet
The difference between splinters
Hundreds of columns
Becoming darker the more it’s unkept
We take for granted
All the warmth that has been provided
Symbolic of perfect duality
Light and dark intersecting until
From a far
It is not possible to tell the difference apart
Only specs of color
To blend in with the dirt
Swaying within your fragmented notion
Motionless in a sea of itself
Can you see the pathways written by worn out socks
Do you treat our roads the same
The hair to the floor is sticking strait up
Upwards to dampen the fall of you
One may even see our sky’s constellations form on this cushioned area of our work’s surface
What is buried within your mess
About the Creator
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The Voyeur's Incandescent Reasoning
The woman sat nonplussed, in the Waiting Room. In a sort of daze, looking straight ahead patiently. She had already had three small breakfast's that morning and a nip of sherry, this was not unusual she would typically wait until an hour after she took her anti-depressant and was her morning routine. She was merely following instructions she assured herself, shifted slightly in her seat and feeling a little heart burn thought, maybe she should skip lunch. Dom had said to have the task done this week. She was well used to his methods and desired to get this over and done with soon. She glanced at her watch, smiled weakly at the Receptionist who was there for a moment and then gone.
By Canuck Scriber L.Lachapelle Author7 days ago in Fiction
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