the contest

.

my ceiling has ears
but no mouth;
eyes, but no arms;
no hands that hold,
no soul

my ceiling can listen,
I think.
I have told it quite a
bit - to be sure.
it doesn't avoid my eye,
no matter how long

I stare.

my ceiling has no voice though.
no soft acceptance of my
jagged speeches.
at best, it can be silent,
unmoving, and unbiased.
I can not be held by my ceiling,
or reassured,
or made less wary in
my search for reciprocation.

my ceiling has no answers for me,
nor any comfort,
nor any confirmation
that my words are heard
by more than just my ceiling.

© afterthoughtcomposer