Embalmed figurines dance over sight
never eclipsing totally the seen light.
entombing me in lingering static stances    
I am but a victim of unforeseen circumstances.

Withering within empty reflections
neither of motion or of my objections.
A fly in trap where life was the attraction
but now I'm just apart of its decaying distraction.

I counted to ten with its transfixed appendage
but ideal thoughts were lost within my lenses.
Withering away, I'm a prisoner of loves holding,
keeping me blind from its truth in moulding.