I found the drip bringing me on a rhythmic trip.
The splash against the pans
and the filling of the pots,
the drops just didn’t seem to stop.
So I made a song, a simple song, right there in my head,
while I laid about, right there in my bed.
This day had no color, and also no end, it seemed.
This day had gone on forever,
I had been laying down for a millennia, you see.
Each plink from liquid to metal
signaled another year in time’s endless pedal.
Each minute was nothing,
something to be forgotten.
I only wanted to stay in this position,
and never really be begotten.
I wish I could have said
that I could have gotten up at any old second,
but something had compelled me
to stay bedridden in this moment.
And so I sung in my own mind
the words to a song to pass along the time.
The plink, the pour of a leaky faucet occurred,
over and over until it was just a blur.


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