I stare up at the ceiling,
Where the ceiling meets the wall.
And empty out my thoughts
That have such a putrid gall.
Spinning them into a web
That I hope to leave behind.
But those words will never leave,
Never falter, always entwined.
But I can still imagine them
Pinned up and on display.
Then think about a feather duster
Sweeping the webs away.