The Ceiling

I draw up these words and place them on my shelf
Stuck between that thought and this.
I sit and wait, breathing in the seconds
Passing away into centuries,
Letting the words collect dust
Letting them mould with age...
Then retrieve them 
And
Passing a wiser, more wrinkled hand over the thick layer of times ashes--
All that grey matter sticking to my palms and fingertips--
I cut up the old creation into separate patterns:
Piecing them together this way and that
Into a quilt of words,
Sewing patches of mismatched fabric
(Those juvenile ideas betrayed,
Manipulated by experience and my calloused hands).
I throw the cover over the bulbs of light
Watching the tears print themselves onto the walls.
Cuts and holes plaster above and around as light is carried within them;
Isolating the pomp and circumstance of darkness
Like a starry night.
Each constellation connected and hidden in folds of myth
An illusionist's maze of tragic figures,
Monstrous creatures,
Gods and demi-gods long since past
Streaming overhead:
Defeating the eyeless portrait in the mirror.