Yours, perpetually

Inked tears come forth,

my voided soul desires to be written on.

Fiddling fingers,

was my passion gone in my nails?

Fiddling fingers,

let it draw on my cheeks,

albeit wet streak’s blunted.

Evanesced mirror,

prophesied for a glass to glass.

Was it the mirror?

Oh,

was my fair existence skinned?

Boded ends;

formed clownery still.

As for to grasp on reflectors on you,

It doesn’t live.

As for a glass to lie on.

Visaged continual reflectors,

Soul synthesizing psyche.

Anterior to anterior subtleties bygone,

What could still glisten?