Wire HangersA Poem by Soil Creep
Untapped wringers in the faucet sound to denote the chimes of endgame
crackling voices, bomb shrieks in plaintive glances eye to class to garment to unit to starvation of ideals to calm. Back at pretension again; the dried out bells drained, jangling, quiet, and unease. Indisputable in its simplicity.
© 2013 Soil CreepAuthor's Note
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