Thursday, September 18, 2014

Bygone


Around the kitchen table
Papers lay
askew
The ink left to dry.
The second hand
ticks
To its own rhythmic beat.
The silence between them
Drifts
In to the puff of smoke.
As the long lazy drag is taken
It's a loud exhale to
An exhausting
 end.
It was never meant to be this way.
Or so they thought.
From afar one awaits the
flood.
The other fears the
drought.

-Aleisha M.

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