A faucet drips softly a rhythm of thought

A faucet drips softly, a rhythm of thought,

a metronome marking the worries I’ve sought.

In the stillness of night, each drop falls like grace,

a reminder that time doesn’t care for my pace.

With every small splash, a moment that lingers,

shadows of doubt play like puppets on fingers.

I sit with my worries, the silence so deep,

the drops fall like echoes, they cradle my sleep.