Such ivory skin, pockmarked by forgotten remorse.
She speaks a soft sigh, a dust-filled voice grown oh so hoarse.

A tongue dipped in the envy of a long butchered youth.
Whispers wearily waxed, softened by gin and vermouth.

A web cast, born out of the needle's frozen pinprick,
bloodied and battered, fading away, quiet and quick.

We fight because we're tired, we're tired because we're kind.
And yet we sit, yet we wonder, why we've grown confined.

An empty promise spat upon the setting sun.
Tell me, what do we do when the work is done?