In all hanging eyes,
There is but one,
With a lone stare upon a someone,
Though, he is too much a toiled man,
With the same stains on his hands.
Now when blood is shared with blood,
His hands have only held another’s.
A woman’s hands are as frail as the oldness she’ll grow into
Upon when the world looks to her, with brightest kindness.
Now when kisses are shared with kisses,
And futures seem bright with warmth and song,
Death is upon his door,
Failure clothes his bones.
Guilt always amasses the weathered and beaten,
Drunken and sorry man.
His apologies are but a weak statement,
Love would find its way
If it were not a hurricane,
He is meant to battle,
Along the way.