Cold eyes hiding cunningly behind an aegis of gloom. Daring glare, scornful like the devil’s snare whispering — “what is dead is never truly dead.” Your savage hands reek of the raw scent of woe, angst and everything in between. You’re not a man. You’re not quite the beast. Are you the thing that makes life seem too short to live? Or you’re the truth attests to the phoenix’s myth?
And like a ball of yarn, I lay loosely in your hands. You push, I pull. Silent night but your poise echoes loudly through the corners of the room. Wrapped in a semblance of indifference but I know what’s coming. I hear the words that your mouth isn’t saying —“Alas! The deathless lives again.”
