I concede.
This iridescent mask has sheered.
Melancholic holes breed a home,
a numb unwelcome coax cracks
in a frame so familiar.
The comfort in self, picked from marrow;
left all but a carcass
in the shadow of chipped smiles
hung from walls torn with cadence.
A weathered translucence,
where light fails to flood
rich in the poverty of hope.
A hope that tomorrow brings
the chance of remedy,
birthed from a purging kindle
to char the taste of sorrow brown -
until I'm softened to sand
and reshaped in former image.