Cel. A poem.

Each day in this cell
passes like a film cel,
a moment captured in acetate,
rinsed and repeated,
on perpetual loop.

The subtle changes in aspect
of each textured frame,
a motion blur of constituent parts,
every event a cinch mark.

If only we could edit our dailies,
to make sense of the narrative,
to remove the chaff that haunts
like a dime-store critic
in the background of every shot.

The emulsion soon grows thin,
the script is pure melodrama
and the cues are overly-theatrical.
It can’t be saved in post-production.

This life, winding in 35mm,
fed through perfs before the gate
until the spool finally hits the floor.

The end. Curtains.

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