Fill her eyes again, those that outran the tear.
Tissues that once pumped blood, now bleed.
Filled with self detest, her heavy chest
teases life, succumbing to the ambiguity in survival.
Resort to sub-conscious. Must hide the heat.
A rusted cog in the wheel, weak, she did
put a pig on a pedestal in lone pasture.
The assassin in concealer found its host.
Why love, should she let it grow?
Let her steal away from your care
to ease in a corner of despair.
