Under the Dust

old, retired, forgotten, worn
the world is full of lies
she hums herself a song tonight, to

pass the time as she lies
the lonesome count of one, two
the hands of the clock do warn

as time ticks on, oh what she would give to
once again be worn
from beneath the washing machine where she lies

the little worn sock asks under the dust,
“What lies ahead?” to no one

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