Crooked Lines
by Iris
· 13/01/2026
Published 13/01/2026 14:35
The stripes don’t settle; they insist
on angles sharp, a clenched fist.
Fabric sagging, uneven fight,
like pulse fractured in half-light.
Each line a stubborn, jagged scar,
no rhythm, no smooth avatar.
They lean and stretch and fold away,
a fault line where the colors sway.
The curtain hangs, a crooked chest,
a pattern that won’t let me rest.