In your deceased eyes where pestilence
and vile pride thrive, I choose not to comply.

To vision, your sight is as narrow as the bending
road through dark hills blackened upon the night.

To see, to the seas your absurdity and cruelties
will drift, among deadwood, dead thrift as
lifeless as your eyes.

Whose obsolete wear has shorn its last hair,
upon my breast, where truth and forgiveness
stand to dare.

Against oblivion, against silent omens that reveal
where light turns to darkness in eyes
where colors of the world.

Took a pair of darting, restless pears whose fruit
dried like the queerest of nights among the dunes
of the ceaseless Sahara.

Colorless, darkened to death and decimation, eyes like cold stone, granite of the most swollen
tone holds place in those insidious holes.

As bright as a fledgling star to a decomposed bark
are your eyes as barren and solemn, victims
to inexorable sight.

As sunk and swollen, burnt and broken, as dry and divulged, are eyes in forlorn scope.

Wake dreary one, you're perpetually elderly
from such eyes, like sickness inside the skin
do you seek eternally for sight

that has long past dimmed,
that has long since took flee.

To the refuge, to the remants
of the past lives, whose lovely eyes

Saw such promise through strife,
all the while unaware of their blindness.