I am a crumbling, powdering disease.

I hallucinate the things you say

prancing demons, distorting my ageless glass.

I cover my face with a silk veil

creating with tight-shut eyes

because it's better if you don't look back.

They are pouring molten-

Plucking-

Tugging-

Shredding-

They whisper things, sticky caramel

honey sick-sweet with lies

and refactions

and warping.

My little box was always solid, in the end...

... Though, surprisingly brittle, don't you think?