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Puddles

The rain; it still falls
Down onto the ground until it disappears among the mirrors reflecting at the sky
He watches still, as it rains
The water leaking, cracking, and breaking what little wall held by

His breath comes back, heavy in sorrow
The drops, he thinks, are burdened too
Like fallen angels, they stare upright and into the night; shrouded out of sacred heaven.
“An echo,” he whispers, “is all that’s true.”
Puddles of memories upon the ground

He watches still, as it rains
Drowning, he knew, was not a choice
He had tried already, the bottles now scattered
It was all still there, his crying voice

The drops still fall, he watches on
In all the echoes, his broken world muddles
No, not drowning, but drowning still
And everything around him turns to puddles,
Puddles of memories.





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