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.
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