Sometimes, I weep, yet cannot
see the edge’s line and filigree.

Add to this – dim appeal,
obtuse affection, not fresh not real.

Creek beds flow in pouring rain
tears evolve, invoking pain.

A polish on the floor reflects
the one light on, that one affects.

A square persona, mirrored there
in lust’rous promise, staid and clear.

Such consequence – o tainted eyes
beneath a sad and milky sky.