Drip. Drip. Drip.

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Drip. Drip. Drip.
Can’t you hear that? I hope you can, but if you can’t who is right? You or me?
The resonating sound echoes in the corners,
My being is full with the sum of these consistently dropping drips.
Slosh. Slosh. Slosh.
You must hear that. That weighty balancing act that my body plays as it becomes full.
I walk around to the drip, drip, dripping and the slosh, slosh, sloshing.
I am heavy.
Splash. Splash. Splash.
Surely there is no way you cannot hear that.
No longer can I fill with the still pouring water;
It runs out of me and onto the black and white tiles of the floor.
I overthrow the excess, unable to contain so much.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Slosh. Slosh. Slosh.
Splash. Splash. Splash.

Scrunch. Scrunch. Scrunch.
I can’t hear it.
I want to hear that scrunch, scrunch, scrunching of the hard clay,
But alas I do not.
It fades into the background of the sloshing and splashing and dripping;
The happy sounds of life.
Their warning bell remains silent, or does it simply play for all of time?
Unheard due to its constancy,
Ring. Ring. Ring
Surely I should hear that ringing. It echoes in the world around me, but I have no need of it.
It sounds off, those tiles; screaming for sanctuary.
Yet all I hear is the dripping, the dropping, and the splashing.
But let us not forget that hard Earth,

That scrunching and that ringing of a bell yet to ring for happiness.
People do not always realize that it is precious

That we are precious.
Water cannot drown one and disappear from another that has seen too much or too little,
When do people begin to understand that this it will run out.
We will reform.
We have no choice, not when we are death to the ringing screams.
“Water”





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