White paint peels off to leave the walls bare,
naked and exposed to
elements.
Much like her soul.
Starved of love and affection,
accepted but not wanted.
Tolerated.
The sun casts her shadows on those
she frowns upon,
leaving winding roads to spiral out of control.
Time shifts her world from
it's axis as it progresses,
it doesn't heal,
it doesn't lessen,
It just is.
Echoes of your voice ricochets
to find her heart,
carrying the exact weight they
did the second they fled your tongue,
never shedding an ounce of momentum

"The waves of pain
that had only lapped at her
before now
reared up high and pulled her under .."

A dimension of despair, a hall of hate
Ensnared in the eye of it all, a lone soul
Untouched by death, unblessed by life,
A burdened carrier of the weight of reality.

His sweat is crimson blood, his tears are acid.
Skin marred, like landscapes ravaged by war.
Fingers bent, two clusters of gnarled driftwood.
His voice like mountain rock, old and worn by nature.

A spirit lost in his own Great Depression
A nomad of the hourglass,
his time blown away like sand
A puppet master without control of his puppets

I gazed upon his face:
and saw the deep canyons
a path familiar to the tears flowing down his face.
and saw the cracks
that once were filled with a smile.
and saw the scars
that came from promising to take a bullet for her,
and pulling through with that promise
even when she shot the bullet.

I then decided I had spent enough time.
I walked away from the mirror.