Are the cracks growing in my ceiling
or am I only concentrated
on the negative spaces
and empty places,
fissures in the faceless vagueness?
I move my head but gaze, in stasis, braces,
fixatedly captivated but basis irritated;
besieged and bested, complicated.
Frayed and frailly agitated,
lines and lesions, slow invaded;
vision ruptured, edges bladed,
sharp incisions boldly stated.
Blank slate, once naked, now degraded;
canvas chasms, saw’s jaws serrated;
damage disfigures, divisions direction dictated: separated...
Buy had I forgotten exactly what made it?
Not the flawless form created but perfection, idly sated.