This dreary shadowy space.
The door is sealed.
It opens and closes in mind. No actual movement.
Black and white trimmings.
The uncleaned sheets matted with dust and oil.
The half moon faces directionless.
The open bottle. Cold glass. Endless rim.
Notice those small things now. A fray of fabric. A hair on the looking eye.
The mirror shows backwards truth and you see delusion.
Numb reluctance.
“All mothers go to heaven” spoke of madness.
The shaken hand is tossed aside.
Given up potential, from the wrist.
All contribution.
Weighted paper without ink. Sins recorded.
Time is lost through exhaustion and tears.
From one cell, through miracle, through improbability.
Your mother and your father.
Ancestors turning in stone.
Gone.