Upon fields of death, twixt rivers of blood, I have lain. Around me lie friends, by my will slain.
My sight is bedazzled, a glass cocoon filters my eyes. Prismatic light fills my world, blocking all cries.
By word and deed, I push society from my sight. My emotions bleed, I crave my former might.
Before this affliction of feeling, I was content, albeit cold-hearted, but these emotions take even the saving grace of being martyred.
A child's smile, courtesy rendered, a woman's love, and acceptance tendered, caused my emotions to bloom. This, which is a gift of childhood, given as an adult, has sealed my doom.
I cannot deal with emotions, mine or others', so I rebuild my cenotaph, my glass cocoon. Within my fantasy face and heart of ice, I am defended, returned to the womb.
One day perhaps I shall break the cocoon. What I will be then, I do not know, but I will begin again.
Patience is a virtue, but virtue has never been one of my redeeming qualities.