The village in your eyes
Seems always lit with flames
Tell me, why must the peasants burn?

Truthful, seething snakes are chopped
Half way, between your gates.
Barred lips part only to grace us with
Humble, but disturbed sighs.

You collect and preserve thoughts,
Backing them into a corner, and
Making them confess the false.

Studying your pre-buried essence,
Your spirit’s melting point,

I wonder if you’re okay.

And just like that, you weave a smile,
Weak and yet it shines,
Telling me that you’re not alright.

But reassuring me you will be.

 
Copyright © sassy_smirk, All Rights Reserved