The Horrible Dip Dip
The traveler stands alone,
a trespasser in dust and rot,
and then the sounds begin.
not rain,
not time's heavy sigh,
but a persistent,
liquid malice striking a rusty pot
somewhere in the black gut of the house.
Drip
A tiny bullet of sound fired into the deep quiet.
Drip
The sound
a tiny hammer
on the anvil of silence,
chipping away at the night.
Drip
An unwelcome guest,
insistent
monotonous
filling the vast emptiness
with its small, steady rhythm.
Drip
Each drop a moment passing,
marked by the sound
in the dark heart of the night
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