Confined in the bubble of thought,
I sit before this room
the pitchers, the glasses,
the paintings on the wall
The portal behind the window pane,
beholds madness in one's eyes
the cracks, the chipped paint,
the ombre imprint of life

Stroke by stroke, line by line,
you tear your life away
Coloring in the drafted frames
then bind them with a gauge
So much dust have accumulated
more than enough to see your tracks
But turn to a blind eye,
and exhale the puff of smoke