The Surface

The box sits, dark and quiet,

its shine a deep, cold pool.

A careful coat, kept tight,

against the air, against the rule

of time. A silent riot

of hidden grain, beneath

that perfect, glassy skin.

My finger finds a small death,

a hairline crack, thin

as a whispered, held breath.

It runs, a fault line,

across the polished plane.

A flaw in the design.

Does it feel the pain

of being held, so fine?

What holds within,

underneath this hard facade?

A secret, or just sin?

The effort made, unclad,

to keep the surface pristine.