Sight of the blandest photograph, crowd of snoring people,

starched skin lacing something, ruffles with sounds,

silence screeches, burns and freezes, scratches my sensibility,

and the room drenched with paned sun, smells dead air;

if only I could hear that pale impatience kill me,

waiting spontaneously, scratching my sensibility,

vibrant hands highlight everything, blurred with vision,

view of the brightest painting, band of fidgeting humans.