In the melting of an hour a miasma descends

not down, not up, but into.

"Move in-world on my fragility!"

it haunts, taunts, and flaunts a not-so-perfect

humid reflection of reality--

one sticky enough to cling

to an ego already softened

by the ageless quest:

how to escape from the real.

The answer?

One image of perfection.