thoughts

staring into white-washed walls as if they'd
burst into design at any moment,
flares of orange and tattoo parlor lines
sprawling the expanse,
painting roman cathedrals,
reverse formulas
and old records on the blank canvas

staring into days when clouds swallow the sky
or nights when computers hum louder than crickets can sing
into ceilings with bumps like dull icicles
crosswalks that feel too wide, and white lies
that lay quiet on the floor somewhere

white walls illustrating
ocean hugging sand, and music that flows through veins
acrobats dancing in air effortlessly,
pieces of advice in time-machines.

but they don't burst into color,
spill, swirl or sweep the corners
into something artistic.



white-washed walls still the same,
still white,
painting over
your company.