This poem is in response to a post about a boy who lost his love. You should read the original post; it’s written like prose but really it’s poetry.
(Spoiler: “His blood-shot eyes, will not open and see hers.
Hers, cool and set in stone.
As if any simple task, so easy, she left alone.”)
* * *
Set In Stone
When he sees her eyes
set in stone,
which close in exhaustion when he speaks,
her emaciated wrists that connect
shaking hands to pointed elbows,
the acne mottling her face
and the twitching bottom lip
which is the foundation of her frown,
he should be grateful
that she is stone and not wood—
wood to be cut down,
however beautiful the result,
all against her will.
She sets her eyes in stone
to protect them, to keep them
still and silent and safe
from the warm ones that look in.