Eyes of Stained Glass
Baggy sweatpants cling to feeble legs
stale and stiff
needed to be washed days ago.
She didn’t wash them. Like her shoes,
her shoes that were stained,
ruined from a soiled world.
And her hair. Curled
but not elegantly. More like unkempt, uncared for,
a nest on her head. Displayed, but not proudly.
Cowering behind her mask,
her appearance in ruins,
but with no name attached.
A person in crisis, no doubt. But who is she?
Beneath coiled knots are worried eyes,
eyes scared to death over lies
told. Doing ‘fine’ but less alive
the more she lingers.
A mass throbbing in her head,
welling in eyes of stained glass
A sickening black
exhalations into evening air,
with a feeling of lack
and indifference.
A dull exterior,
squirming insides inferior
She was something
made into nothing.
