Thy eyes turn towards places, where scars do not fade.
They are but shells to a beating heart,
Discarded, like the crab to its own shelter,
Blankness, is to your soul, without a need to write your tale,
Like the chirping of birds in the rising sun,
Like the coming music of when you start sobbing.
Beauty is but the colors, untouched when they are not touched.
Like a virgin who became the child,
Like the adolescent who became the infant,
Like the infant who rejoined the womb.
Do you remember his own funeral?
Your arms were wrapped around
Like seaweed to the rotted fossil,
And you sung, like the siren upon the rocks.
You sung all the weeping so the priests could hear,
And would not allow any comfort to fill your heart with jeer.