looking at him hurts,
the way he tosses and turns to the sound of one's pitiful voice,
the way he shape shifts his own world adoring one who walks the earth on the talons of crumbled mindedness,
looking at him aches,
the sweet sound of his voice reflects the cognition of one who before was humane,
he feeds on one's solicitude and burdens on the travesty,
his voice now whimpers in desperation for one who moves heaven and earth but there is nothing there,
the single red rose yearns for the storm but clouds as one are stoic,
there will be no shower