The Beads

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She ambles in this ghost town ,

In a collage of colors ,

The lagoon serpents around .

The shadows patches ;

Hinting the brightness of sight

Making a funny composition ,

That make her crave to fly .

 

 

Sitting there lower than the footsteps ,

She listens to the conversation incomprehensible,

The clock keeps ticking ,

The church strikes twelve ,

She doesn’t leave ,

Neither does she stay .

 

 

The beads keep clinking ,

Along with the water that flows ,

The thoughts rolling  ,

Compelling to make them her own .

 

 

Another few minutes ,

Another few decades ,

Of this passing contentment ,

Perching by the window of another ,

She declares this light her home.

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