Swollen walls like punched up paintings
of otherwise perfect specimen.
Ceiling cracked like an hour glass,
timing out the room with plaster.
An impromptu look towards the mirror
reflects a distorted crossed-man
with his hands
waiting to clap for sins.
Curtains torn from lungs,
smoking through the decades,
flung back violently so parents
can see hazy street lanterns
that decide departure hours.
Children screaming from a black hole,
a cosmic punishment for infidelity.
A stillness bred
while they sleep,
soundly and lovingly.