Beneath the skin

In the ever-faded cloister of life itself

I find myself finding new cracks and dents

Who put them there? And what was their purpose?

Was it just to provide me new details to look at?

I speak these words, but my innermost mind knows the truth behind

The cloister is me, and the cracks are my sorrows

As time goes on, they make the structure less and less stable

In minute micro-fractures everyday, they slowly ruin the beautiful architecture

And the simple cracks and dents, so innocuous in appearance

Are in fact the seeds of death and destruction upon myself

...

Unless...

I intervene