“Untitled” by: Erickson
Centuries lay before you.
Nude.
Scarred, save for thin protective layer-
A spider’s web thrown to the wind.
It's a whisp that allows us to breathe.
Color draws into pupils-
Rising sun, crumbling leaves, architecture climbing heights.
Squint. Step back. Move forward—trace the design, its slow rotation.
An intricate fashion has been made.
But does all of its color take your breath away?
The cost, cemented into DNA.
A simple page.
Like eyes craving the next-
erased in the final wash of a wave.
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