I see myself through green eyes blue
And wonder what to make.
What to make of this mature young girl
What to make of me?
Soft red lips, so coarse and harsh
Pale drawn skin and yet roses blush her cheeks.
She has small dark eyes, that light up with brightness
Small dark eyes, not green and not blue.
Her eyes become more tired with every smile that she cries
They speak a silence that explains it all.
She watches helplessly while her son,
Her beloved, writhes.
Consumed with pain the pair cling to each other
For comfort that refuses to come.
Her fingers, so denied the milk of life
Lock tightly in prayer.
Crying out for hope, her tears sooth his splintered being.
Empty of all strength she can do nothing
But inhale the despair weeping from her heart.
The room fills with blood
The stench of death is masked only by the rancid perfume of grief.
Not feeling, not knowing, not wanting
Thats how I want to be.
A state of mind thats simply numb,
That’s what I wish for me.
To dim the noise and calm the storm
Just press pause and lay to rest
Is how I long to be.