A dimension of despair, a hall of hate
Ensnared in the eye of it all, a lone soul
Untouched by death, unblessed by life,
A burdened carrier of the weight of reality.

His sweat is crimson blood, his tears are acid.
Skin marred, like landscapes ravaged by war.
Fingers bent, two clusters of gnarled driftwood.
His voice like mountain rock, old and worn by nature.

A spirit lost in his own Great Depression
A nomad of the hourglass,
his time blown away like sand
A puppet master without control of his puppets

I gazed upon his face:
and saw the deep canyons
a path familiar to the tears flowing down his face.
and saw the cracks
that once were filled with a smile.
and saw the scars
that came from promising to take a bullet for her,
and pulling through with that promise
even when she shot the bullet.

I then decided I had spent enough time.
I walked away from the mirror.