A face embedded in the fabric of time –
Untouched by change, unmoved by the sublime.
Strangled hair – the dead’s actually dead.
A million worries on the forehead.
The eyebrows that don’t raise;
Surprises are rare these days.
Eyes that speak of many a night o’ despair.
Loneliness hits hard. Truth hidden somewhere.
No sweet nudgings of innocence
For the nose that sniffled in silence.
Thousands of tears drank by the cheeks;
Draught has hit. No pity to seek.
Quivering lips whose red was never noticed –
The words they formed died on them unfinished.
A chin that’s buried in the chest –
Afraid to look up and face the test.
This face I wear when I’m alone.
No one to please and on my own.
Artwork by Alexa Meade