Morning's grace of twilights pass,
Silk ribbons line the floor,
The quiet word that shatters glace,
A voice that speaks no more.

Eyes that see beneath the surface,
The water lies at peace,
Words impaled into the chest,
That lead the mind to grief.

The strain will grow, the seams now crack,
Tearing at the ends,
Behind the eyes the middle folds,
And truth that will not bend.

Caring hands that tend the wound,
To no avail they'll be,
The flesh held now tight, as one,
The cut runs twice as deep.
 
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