The pallid expression on her absent face
Her fair skin has lost it's marble touch
She is prudent and prurient as her gaze
There is a youthful grace that I cannot judge
Must I comprehend, this alabaster?
Should I presume, the sculptor made an erroneous smudge?
In a park of tracks and pulverized people
Their faces clutch at her words
As they are left only with the epithets and hardly any details
My landlord pleads for rent as I reach upstairs
He wonders and wants to know more
Should I reply with mumbles?
It is a festering wound at my heart's core
That coagulates at my throat as I fumble
For there is no answer
There is no question
It is just to do or die without her
All of it can coalesce
If I give in to my fiery adolescence