I came across a refuge dressed in turquoise tiles and dripping letters whilst debris grinded about the better times.
Tranquility, I thought, but it was a fallacy for the walls were talking to me.
Outside I found the replica of a forest right in a window’s joint.
And that is the cruelty of it all; time is unforgiving.
Cold leaked through the window frame and there
not moving not turning its head not rubbing its legs
sat a fly.
I bend to examine it closely.
Its wings were a perfectly symmetrical veil.
As I took a picture, I realised that it was soon to die and felt blasphemous.