the contemplation den

her steralized smile is so intrinsic to me
for the damned cry to no evail on frozen ground
the unknown sea of teardrops lost and never found
that spent shell sound of reverb on walls unbound
so small the pieces of devine debris
in her crystaline state of being she seems to agree
innocence is fruit with no option but to sour
so that baptism in wine over porcelain white skin
created a maroon of pain and a ghost within
failing the light behind the shade of shadows so dim
flailing that sheet of white, peaceful she fell
to perfect irony in the end
a sterile contemplation den
a carveture of Y with a smile and no need to mend