The floor of the rooms reverberating
With the gray sounds permeating through the walls
As white pillars of clouds condense from the ceiling
Wide-open, flower beds of crystallizing blooms
And the frame breaks and the world whispers its fall
The moonlight resting on my hands upon the windowsill
The vanishing point of memory, fluctuations that disturb the still
Behind the cold curtains upon the glances of gloom
Growing under the intensities of questions to endure
How must I see through the broken silverness of my reflectiveness?
