Cardboard edges crumble slow

Cardboard edges crumble slow,

layers folded like forgotten skin.

Rough ridges catch the weak light,

a crack in the basement’s muted breath.

The smell of damp earth rises up,

a cold scrape as fingers push and bend,

flattening folds with shaky hands,

a slow confession pressed in brown.

Lines repeat, stacked in endless rows,

a landscape built from bent and torn.

Each crease a fold in the story kept

between dust and cracked concrete.

I leave it cracked beneath the single ray,

tracing shadows cast where light will fray.