From simple showers
Squeeze steady streams.
Bursting out of
A stainless – steel resovoir,
Marching in single file surges,
A certain pressure,
That always remains unseen.
(And is scarcely understood)
Trapped behind at least,
Two layers of
That rivals even the silkiest of spider-webs,
Whistles or hums can scarcely be heard,
The same forgotten jaunty tunes,
That permanently echo from tile to tile,
With dripping and the sound of
Work to create an empty soundtrack.
(Imitating the soapy footsteps of these washed-up ghosts)
But never really replacing them.
And over in the
Is an unfortunate bathroom plant.
And near it,
Is where the also-unfortunate
Live their tiny existance.
Or farming but instead,
(While having no other obvious contributions to submit)
Wayward piles of dust,
Into tiny oragami dolls
And file them
Away in cracks that resemble cabinets,
The constant erosion of faulty caulking.
This is no place for this beacon of beauty.
This resemblance of life stuck in
This lonely arboreal diety,
Hearing the constant slam
Of sliding glass
And mistaking them for
Jublious claps of thunder past,
That are now never followed by rain, but instead
Bubbles and the smell of bleach.
The flickering of artificial
Looks like lightning,
(For a split second)
But generates no substantial form of
It will forever only ever feel the
Stinging touch of reclaimed rainwater.
(That is universally known to be undrinkable.)
This confused caladium,
Infused with expiring carbon will
Forever be confused about its
Obviously mistaken placement.
Because expecting acceptable maitanence,
In a purgatorial place such as this,
Is unequivocally unacceptable.
Because more often than not,
The best botany,
Is undoubtedly bred,
On the best of balconies.