Poetry

I am beginning to understand

that words can drip as surely

as a tap needing a new washer.

But no plumber can stop or fix this tap.

No.

The constant drips must be heard,

will be written,

will not stop being formed,

till the words cease

with the coming of night.

 

These words drip and stain

the pages of my thoughts

and insist on being laid down

on a cold wet page;

not because they have to be

but because that is the place

they must fall.

 

30/7/2014

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