Something cynical this way came.
It came in a moment and took up residence
                           inside me.
When half full became broken glass,
I stopped looking at the whole picture,
and focused on the cracks.

How does one battle black and white?
The cracks. They're inevitable right?
Paint chips, rock erodes, skin withers.
Why fight?
Time always has been a killer.

I guess it came to me at a time,
understanding it is easy.
Maybe that should scare me, but now
I find the dirtiest in all things.
Would I be surprised to find how ugly I've become?
Or would I just brush it away as another necessary casualty?