In my theater I am a sculpture, the kind that is gently draped across the ceiling looking down on those fragile warm squishy things.

That seem to marvel at what I am or what I am not.

My draping clothing lightly covers what should not be seen as my hair ever so perfectly curls behind my ear.

But as I am held to the ceiling so close to the sky I see.

I’ve seen people in lust caressing each other’s movements with their vulnerable eyes.

I’ve seen riots and pain blood shed by a knives conniving kiss

I’ve seen mothers and daughters of sisters and brothers of man love.

Today I was shaken out of my sweet bed in the ceiling that I fell.

I fell to my theaters floor and shattered into a million ideas.

I then notice that I was one of them all along.

Entrapped in my own theater as insanity broke through.