The Rest Is Literature

Emptied a bucket I do not own. The water has drenched a right few people. They are dripping, with their eyes pointed at me. They are smiling now, Its fake smiles but I don’t mind. My bucket is empty, my language wets the floor. They turn their backs, Walking into the blurry distance. I wave goodbye and turn my head, and spy the mirror, the bucket has turned into. A lightning bolt of horror, Cuts through my core, as I realise the situation. My bucket is my soul, my water is my heart and now that it is empty, My heart beats at my feet.