• Grasping my scars,
    Like the skirts of a mother,
    Clinging, as if for life,
    To something unreal,

    For my wounds,
    Bleed ruby prisms,
    From the daggers,
    In your stare,

    Why has it grown so cold?
    Like a statue,
    A mere shadow,
    Frozen in icy flames,

    Flames that once burned bright,
    With anger,
    Passion, or some emotion,
    At the very least,

    But now just ,
    Barren, bleak, cold,
    And boring into me,
    Like white hot needles,

    A proverbial pincushion of despair,
    All of which as been delivered,
    With my hard brand,
    Of redemption,

    Redemption in cold,
    Heartless steel,
    Like your eyes,
    Your senseless eyes,

    Like demons,
    Of their own accord,
    Scarring me,
    With metallic stares,

    But they will never burn again,
    For though dead,
    Things can be kindled,
    But ashes may ne’re be lighted again.