Teared Curtain

“How fickle my heart and woozy my eyes;
My weakness I feel must finally show”

I await in a room full of media bounded gossip lining every angle of the egg-shell wall. It is funny how a new perspective changes they way you look at the most minuscule of things. Even the frail towel used by muddied hands and damp produce, has a new light.

The wicker chair in which I sit now, has had its own days . I snuggle with a worn sweater of faded diamonds, watching purple rays of sunlight peak over the warped wood edge of the window sill.

The faint quiver of piano keys murmur in my ear. Waiting is one of the hardest things. The clock, as I glance at it, is as much beautiful as it is a nuisance, or more of what it represents.

Time. Something that has touched everything and everyone. Shaping the curves of the mossy earth, and the grooves on my barren face.

I know that not everything lasts, but somehow I wish I could be a stationary object that seems to be there forever being overlooked of its true purpose.

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