Leaky

Leaky whispers from the kitchen tap,
A steady drip that marks the quiet hour.
Each bead of water clings to rusted chrome,
A tiny flood that gathers in the sink.

The old brass joint, now worn and thin,
Sighs its farewell in silver threads,
While plaster on the ceiling weeps,
Staining the plaster‑white with damp‑kissed grey.

A bucket placed beneath the steady beat,
Collects the tears that fate has forged,
Its rim a mirror to the sky outside—
Where clouds, too, leak their sorrow in soft rain.

In every leak there lies a story,
A reminder that even the strongest seams
Will yield, if left unchecked, to time’s gentle press,
And that repair begins with noticing the drip.