fuck the ceiling, looming like tomorrow’s marquee
gaudy flashes from which i must turn
for within lies the ever-present artifice
skulking in dungeons of impulsion
fuck the floor, a cold mirage of hope
rife with arbitrary voids
no measured step bears relevance
pits of quicksand amid houred glass
fuck the door, weak and hingeless
prison cell of self-appointing or shielding from the shrill
one false waft of breath not bated
crumbling point of worlds divided
fuck the words, defying silence
skies of doubting look upon us
laughing in these measured steps
jarring with observant hues
Max, or Not 