There’s the thin green line
That begins at the gutter
And runs down the wall.
No plumber or contractor ever detected its origin.
So it stays
As a scar on the weathered facade.
There’s the crooked copper line
That starts at the base of the bathtub faucet
And worms itself stubbornly into the drainage hole.
No stain remover or bleach ever made a difference.
So no one uses the tub
With its abberation against the snowy enamel.
There’s the terra cotta line
That seeps from under the dragon pot
And bleeds its way into the neighbour’s plot.
No patching with fresh soil ever fills the hardened trough.
So the neighbours have called a truce
Over this border without a fence.
There’re the pale silvery lines
That weep from beneath closed lids
And trickle down facial planes.
No medicine will heal the wounds.
So hope waits
For belief to touch the soul.
DAILY PROMPT ~ RIVULET