Stains
Years of washing,
yet the stains won't fade;
Washboard worn,
My fingers,
Bleed.
A cleansing of my soul,
is maybe what I need.
Bits of metal,
chips of wood;
years of washing,
yet still,
misunderstood...
Years of washing,
Yet the Stains won't fade;
Alone, unclean;
Feeling betrayed...
Years of washing,
the Stains,
won't fade;
Ready for the reaper,
Suit, Tie,
Decay...
Copyright © Terry Cunningham | Year Posted 2012
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