It hurts, it quickens death of self
Like dusty book left lonely on a shelf
Once opened spills fine shards that tear
At semblance of reality, so hard to hear
The voice of one's morality
Words glisten, nauseating warmth
Slams forth against resolve and swarms
The mind with clarity, with sense
Of one's finality, incensed
The questions form, sans answers
Bespoke besieging horrid absence
Of safety, just the eyes that stare
Just the hands that beckon, dare
Just the smile, hungry, bloody fumes
The enemy, the denominator. Truth!
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