To every onslaught of emotion,
colder and harder the light in the eyes
becomes--or appears.
As indefinable, as impervious to
understanding as nostalgia
but never looking behind them.
Their crocodile tears were once silver, but
they've become lead, and finally they crackle and
fade, as dead as a contradiction.
Poisoned by pity, compassion, guilt, love,
the wells dry away,
the poinsettia blood wells through their mind,
a single tongue of flame slowly, painfully
cauterizes the wound
while one cognizant, vapid decision doggedly
clings to its bereaved existence, after the dying flesh
has been cut off and burned.
