I am offended by your voice, periodically plucking at my heart with ravaged, sinewed fingers
who's withered skin whispers pretty little words in pretty little ears belonging
to stale bodies begging to feel fingers fluttering against their cheek.
"Our time will come." They murmur through laced lips, their confidence waning with time
as such a hopeful song bounces forlornly, brokenly, through the caverns of hollow hearts.
It will soon silence.. Listen, listen.
Deaf words never sounded so promising, so meaningless.
The strongest of us grow tired, exhasperation washing wistful glances from our eyes
and you balk, sickly silence welling on your tongue as you learn that
your watery words no longer quenched our growing thirst,
but instead fell in perfectly shaped tear drops..
The last rain before my storm.
