The silence of your touch
becomes a venom throughout
my tortured veins,
crippling abilities of
comprehension beyond
that which dwells with pain.
Experienced concern through
ones own disillusioned eyes
can tell a tale of misconstruction,
grown from seeds plagued
by inauspicious flies.
To eat the flesh of your own truth
is to feast on strifes reccurance,
as acute notions know to my own
kill us faster than time can shield
our eventual demise,
while eyelids mask each
dawning day with obscurity
and resurgence.
R