A Day Slips

The rain

Cold and wet

Returns…

To wash away

What remains…of an afternoon

Dark clouds

Paint a sky…battered and bruised

Ignores

The anxious twilight

As another darkness

Creeps

Hissing like a snake

The day finally trips

Softly slips

Underground

Soon will weep

As it sinks…silently

Consumed

Into the bog of memory

 

Thatcher Doran

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About pmisteil

Hi, my name is Paul though I write under other names like, Thatcher and Paolo, I love literature, art and architecture their passion and drama....the contradictions. The notion of Truth-who is the person behind the mask? Or does it matter! I like long walks and longer conversations over cappuccinos in a cafe with atmosphere and the rest is a journey!
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