Silhouettes in puddles—
once reflections in clear water,
water that knew how to cleanse.
All I see now is blur.
Rain, once clear and cleansing,
defiled—thick with the mud of regret.
And I watch, knowing
I stirred the ground myself.
Nothing pure remains;
the puddle thins,
and lifts
into vapour.
Jan 28
Jan 28, 2026 at 4:29 AM UTC
Silhouettes in puddles—
once reflections in clear water,
water that knew how to cleanse.
All I see now is blur.
Rain, once clear and cleansing,
defiled—thick with the mud of regret.
And I watch, knowing
I stirred the ground myself.
Nothing pure remains;
the puddle thins,
and lifts
into vapour.
This poem is not about a single regret,
but about the puddle that holds it.
Whatever mud you see here is your own.
