I was walking down the dusty road, dragging weight, kicking stones and dusts. Then they caught my right foot, I stumbled to the dirty ground, those dusts I once beneath my feet wandered around my face. I pushed myself up against the gravity pull, desperate grunts escaped my bleeding lips. The nasty taste of metal overwhelmed the buds on my tongue. The stinging steps were unbearable. I asked myself if I was going to fall again. That was the last before I was on the ground; crumbling and shattering into pieces, rotting under the peeks of moonlight.
What goes up, comes down.
(Let's put the blame on gravitation.)
We are the droplets of unvoiced matters, forming a puddle full of mud of our thoughts - forced out or poured down, it doesn't matter.
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