Southwards towards my squalid room, somewhat in the
direction of a silent door which opens both ways–
Work made of Paper weight canvas, inscribed-masterpiece,
lips left in limbo by an artist who forgot dust gathers in open
spaces. An artist who left contours around twisted lips, dipped in gold hue.
I have held this masterpiece before, hushed like a mother to an unforgiving child.
I have searched for the best light source like a still life artist who has found
use for pallid sounds lost in thunderstorms;
I sometimes close my eyes, dream paper might find its use again,
away from toilet rolls.