Flicker Overhead

The beige tiles cracked with time and dust,

dotting a weary, fluorescent sky.

Buzzing light hangs, heavy, unjust—

a quiet electric sigh.

A child cries, sharp and unclaimed,

but no eyes lift from their screen.

That ceiling waits, the same, unnamed,

where young fears are routine.

The stains like ghosts I never named,

dim in the sterile white.

I watch the panels, dull and tamed,

flashing low in soft, sick light.

I breathe the cold, antiseptic air,

shut tight beneath this cracked expanse.

Here, where smallness felt like prayer,

the ceiling holds its glance.