Strands of Dried Leaves
Strands of dried leaves that
hang about your neck,
they dance with each motion,
their bodies rustle in wonder.
Did you notice the stripes
on the bathroom walls?
Orange, cream,
rotten green,
shivering in the electric air.
My hands find the ground,
hard and cold,
they count each tile.
Three-hundred-thirty-five.
The interwoven lines that the tiles create
form the grid of life.
I am sitting on square
two-hundred-twenty-three.
Only a few left to conquer
until my trivial existence
is at an end.
Copyright © R C | Year Posted 2007
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