Withered.Roots and vines grow through her,
Her mind has been here far too long.
Searching for some pacification,
In a world she does not belong.
In the insects she finds comfort,
And the leaves weave through her hair.
Her face lies under foliage,
But she no longer requires air.
Beneath the dirt she is shapeless,
The cold satisfies her placid skin.
Away from life's bombardment.
Away from the howling wind.
The forest smells decayed,
The nights grow so cold.
She tastes autumn on her tongue,
Like a history left untold.
Glass Eyes.I'm a skeletal hollowed figure,Glass Eyes.4 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
stuffed with paper insides.
My figure slumps and drags,
I'm not pleasing to the eyes.
Detached, cold to the touch,
tarnished, worn and blackened.
I'm ashamed of who I am,
But my self deprecation is reasoned.
Yet I'm a sight for sore eyes,
a safe and somber cover.
My only original fragments left,
serve solely as a dim reminder.
Floating through the years,
forced to make myself feel.
Day in day out I grow so discontented,
Yet still you somehow bear the same appeal.
I've been lonely but never alone.
This weight hangs over my injured pride,
briefly things seem clear,
In an instant I am
G l a s s - e y e d.
Slowly I press forward,
Pieces dismembered along the way.
Pulling through monotony,
in hope of a better day.