I peeked at my own visage
And saw an endless mirage
Of torment and resignation
Along with woe in its perfect image
All resting upon my decolletage.
On my flesh are the lines to my salvation,
Much like how the sun kisses the horizon—
It is crimson, sore, and bleeding.
Now living with an ache I cannot decipher
For I couldn't utter a single orison.
With the seedling of doubt I kept breeding—
Death is mercy to a mere cipher.