Jan 06

Threshold

Tufts of rusted coils fortified by the lacquer of

 one dollar hair gel stolen from the aisles.

The contours of its shape pregnant with defiance,

groaning with the murmurs of the wind.

My words stiled and stalled

bent before the lip of tomorrow. 

Waiting to remember exactly 

What it is i am supposed to be doing.

 
About the Author: gabriellerose
Gabrielle Beck
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