The wall's a blank I watch the light

The wall's a blank. I watch the light

slice through the room, and then I see

them: dust motes, spinning, small and bright,

like frantic stars. No logic, free

of purpose. They just drift and fall.

And what am I? A tangled wire

humming? A phantom in the hall?

My brain's a dull, smoldering fire

that won't catch. No thought ignites,

just ashes falling. It's a shame,

these fractured, unattached sights,

this static where there should be a name

for what's inside. Just grit.