The paper has fallen from the walls.
The paste that held it in place laid to waste
by the passing of time;
as memories before it,
tenants before that,
dreams yet earlier.

It recoils away from its purpose
in sensual curves
that languish treacherously
aching for the floor beneath;
the filth and refuse of
accumulated events.

Between the patterns and the plaster
life propagates
milky pustules undulating
performative movements
anxious for a future in flight.

The sun sets against the windowsill.
The portal closing
on a perspective lost
to the procession of stars;
the persistence of planets
the carelessness of time.