Twenty seven cracks
upon the ceiling
They have all been
counted before

Hundreds of rifts
no sign of healing
A burn to feel
no more

The muted sound
of another day
Makes no difference in
this world
On slivers of light
dust motes play
there is no joy for them
as they swirl

Over and over they come
to her
But there is no looking away
from the ceiling
Not once to them
would  it occur

Inside she is
Haunted
with feeling

The screaming banshee
never sleeps
Shrieks that make a
rapid climb

The torn and bleeding
heart that weeps

Jagged breaths mark
seconds in time

No time,
no place,
no form,
no space

Just high up
there is
the ceiling

No joy,
no love,

no sign
from above

Just an ever knowing
feeling

Knowing that it will all
go away
For a time
at twenty seven
The quiet
will dim
alas
it never
stays

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