The Impossible Floor

White paint
chipping off the grey textured wall
before me
holds my vision hostage.
Chips giving way to time,
descend in a rocking motion
to an impossible floor.

A minute, to 4 hours, to 7 months,
my eyes track their movements.
Where they go once beyond
of the border of my eyelids,
I can never know for certain.

I exist in one frame:
These enveloping grey bricks
that will soon hog
the entirety of my sight.
The white chips of paint
will not last forever.
Gravity relentlessly pulls
them away from me.

I mourn each of them.
As in fact,
I’ve grown quite attached to them.
They’re so much more interesting
than I could ever hope to be.
Their edges peeling up
form unique angles and dips
that I often imagine
are waves, or heartbeats.
Their shapes seem
so much for alive than I.

Amidst my grieving,
one nagging thought
is always scratching
at the back of my head.
Digging it’s claws in,
it pulls it’s body down,
tearing my seams.

Idiosyncratic
white sheets:
where are they going?
Do they eternally search
for that impossible floor
or do they simply cease to exist?

There must be more than this wall.
There must be a destination for them.
I want to follow,
but I am terrified.
That impossible floor
looms beneath me.
Sadistic, it slowly rips the last
of the sojourning shapes
from my frame.

All I see is that grey brick now,
and I am eternally at the will
of the impossible floor.
I beg to be released.
I pray to be released.