VIGNETTES, of the mind

 

Overflown,

like a rainy night puddle,

splashed to irrelevance,

onto the pavement,

by a speeding car.

 

Silent,

like a young girl,

on the floor

reading from the

bottom shelf of a bookstore.

 

Listless,

like a night

embraced too late,

almost into the early hours of

morning.

 

Tepid,

like a cup of tea,

gone cold,

characterless, aroma less

static.

 

Shaky,

like a tired dancer’s toes

after hours of

dancing

alone.

 

Shamed,

like a broken promise,

which continues to

sell its

words.

 

Sigh,

like welcoming

the self

towards

self-defeat.

 

And hungry,

like a lonely dog,

which has lost

its way back

home.

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