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.