The white line of the caulk once neat

The white line of the caulk, once neat,

where tub met tile, a clean defeat

of water's creep. Now, a faint gray,

a tiny shadow, holding sway.

I see it now, a hairline crack,

a fault, no turning, looking back.

And from that split, a darker thread,

a tiny spore, softly fed

by moisture, pushing through the seal.

A fine, black line, too raw, too real.

It grows, this stain, a creeping blight,

along the edge, by day and night.

Against the pure, against the clean,

a small decay, almost unseen.

It means the wall, it means the wood,

not holding like it always should.