He was but a boy of thirteen, with shiny eyes full of dreams.
The same beautiful eyes saw his father die.
They were still the same, as beautiful as ever,
but their owner changed, aged years in no time.
With or without the dreams eyes shinned the same.
You don’t age in numbers or year.
You do age in scars, tragedies, and experience.
Used like a rented house, daresay a whore.
With every soul I met, I stepped back some more.
Imagined monstrosities felt a chill from Ties and the boot.
Inquiring eyes followed, resisted every step,
Judging every action. Sugary words followed,
tearing away every bit of innocence and joy,
Until I felt no more, adding one to the heard of demons.
Symphony became cacophony, blood turned white,
stabbing backs, earning titles just to be stabbed,
by the likes of me, every time I emerged but cold.