Drops of History
It’s midnight on Gower Street— The rain’s still pattering Against these broken, ancient windows That once held pieces of history. Each droplet slips down, Searching for worlds, It can no longer reach. Amalgamating instead with The rusty-brown filaments That cling on like sarcophagi To these empty glass pieces. Holding tight to my scarlet red mass-made scarf, I think about the silent colours, These tainted windows are trying to bleed out. The pastels, the brush strokes– Will they ever paint the lost worlds alive again?