A slow drip
at first,
and the groan
of bending
steel.
The drip becomes
a stream,
and the stream becomes
a river,
then the sound of tearing
metal
slices through me.
A crash,
and a torrent
of the washed up
dreams
and the shattered
stained-glass
walls
of my own broken
psyche
pour out
onto the street.
They slide into the gutter
and slip down
below,
with all the other
refuse.
4-25-18
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