Thursday, March 6, 2008

White tiles

A bulbous drop of water grows,
Reflecting tiled anaesthetic sterility.
White, unfeeling, choking indifference
Of rough, hard, hands.
And in the falling sparkle of water,
Is trapped a silence.
A cold silence.
A dead silence.

The rhythmic drip-drop,
Finds release in a fluid splatter,
In the moist puddle, on the tiled floor.
The single drop, shatters,
And quivering droplets fly outwards,
Suspended in a moment,
Like a hopeless scream, smothered and resigned.
Glinting with trapped life, the droplets,
Glide through the air,
Until their sparkle is extinguished,
On the bathroom tiles.
Like a concrete, white tiled, sterile grave;
An airless prison with a panting crimson stain.

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