echoes

 

the whisper becomes urgent when unheard
its softness turning harsh
when forced to rise
from languid, silken bed sheets
upwards
grasping for its absent lover
as for air finding itself buried
stifled by the strata laid upon it
while it slept
it screams
desperately seeking openings
in rock

fissures forge at last
not by muscle
but by tears
as water melts through rock
weariness so falls
to strip the bed
of what was merely a thin veil

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M.C. Reardon

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