White walls,

White like the wings of angels,

White like the unhatched egg.

Covered in craters.

Like the white moon,

Covered in craters.

Created by so many former nails.

&

Cracks created by driving hammers,

Like driven railroad spikes,

They run top to bottom….down the line.

Silver

& exciting

At first,

But eventually blackened by coal and friction.

Still not yet authentic enough to be called

Canyons, though.

Small lengths of cord protrude from

The ceiling,

Extending everywhere,

Feigning intact connections,

Imitating inanimate tentacles.

These loose ends,

Once prominent sources for

Symphonies of light

&

Sound.

Now

Only connected to recycled air.

And remnants of cobwebs.

That  gently blow like

Clean linen hung out on the line.

This is an empty room,

An entire empty space,

Still somehow so full of energy.

&

Breadcrumbs.

Vast deserts of course  carpet,

That run the length of the entire suite,

(Sentient ceiling fans  only orbiting interpretations of ineptitude, at this junction)

 Have been,

Vacuumed so thoroughly,

Vacuumed so vividly,

That the concealed concrete,

(On  the other side)

Shines through like polished alternative ,

Ready for excavation.

Not even some of the most vapid of vapors

Can hide the smells of spilled meals

&

Ceremonies involving tennis shoes,

&

Alchemy.

(The torches long ago burned out)

(The potions long ago diluted)

And the occasional misplaced staple,

Poking straight up from the  dusty dunes of Berber

Reaching for a taste of that buttery popcorn ceiling.

Instead taking on the role of the lazy cacti,

(& even lazier movie goer)

Minus the water,

Minus the oxygen.

Only acoustics,

And ghosts thereof,

Remain within the confines of the  once

Adequate square footage.

Outlines of furniture,

Are now nothing more than spotty patterns.

Even the linoleum leading into the bare kitchen,

Resembles  a empty mausoleum.

 The foyer door swings open,

(mini-blinds still somehow intact)

Revealing the naked balcony.

Allowing one-of-a-kind scents to escape out into the wind,

From within,

& settle in the nests of neighboring birds.

Blessing the eggs and the

Eventual feathers.

But upon this vacant doors closure,

&

Subsequent sale of the entire empty space,

To some new tentative tenant.

The rejuvenated songs of those same blessed  birds,

(Who sing loudest on Sundays, when the windows are open)

Yet again,

Canonize those vulnerable white  walls,

…With familiar sounds

Sounds that smell and taste better now.

Providing a gentle jingle for the new painters.

Providing a minuscule meal for the new lessee.

Finding their way into the depths of the  airtight freezer,

Around the bag of expired frozen vegetables,

To settle into ten congruent glacial pools.

&

To once and for all,

(Setting ethos aside)

Find the  differences,

(However microscopic)

Between the  transparent composition of crushed and cubed ice.