A crack on the ceiling. A line; far from deep. Its cross-section layered, Its existence discrete. Unassuming and simple in a room bright and plush. Its existence is futile, for its fate is the brush. A restoration of beauty; appeasing the strain. Layering and patching again and again. As long as the eye knows not that its weakened, The flaw will endure, now perpetual and deepened. Its a crack on the surface a line; far from deep. Take heed of its presence; but mend whats beneath.