This Place

Smelling white paint when I try to write
Seeing a small domed room from inside,
Newly painted, monochrome, with no relief for the eye.
The smell dries me out, dehydrates the words.
Reduces the world to locked door seclusion.
And me to solitary,  primitive, self-referred, smearing.
Illuminated dimly with pale fluorescent flicker.
Feeling along the smooth walls for cracks.