My hands reside in a state of quiet contemplation
Whilst my mind rattles the very foundations of my emotionally charged cage.
This poker face eloquently hides the scores of sharp, smoldering daggers
That lie lodged in the fabric of my sweet, shivering soul...
They serve as a searing reminder of the cruel cacophony of my youth;
The burning heart of my innocence.
I have grown to accept the irony.
There is no white horse...
No shining knight of honor and valour.
Only a succession of lies
And a procession of sly, sneering eyes.