Will you ever get over this? It is your face and it suggests otherwise. A little burn to cover the spot of your madness, pink as salmon spawning or a stout trunk encased in ice. I go mad when i see it. Mostly the better half is busy hiding under the face that madness lent it, or in a rose bush, or just dragging the winter down behind it. Carbon-black or blue or grey, it doesn't matter. Your mouth is a soft bird. It opens and closes and mourns as though the sun had no warmth or mother. Lie still. Your face opens; roaringly and suddenly gushing like a circular vein, Not an IV but an opposite direction. And it is all my fault. This is dignity and here is formality, which both you posess. Your heavy arms are in the water quaking the mud at the bottom. A stone drops quickly at your feet and you look up, surprised and aloof, with no shame. Carbon-black or blue or mica, it doesn't matter. Your brow is sewn tightly together and sometimes you remember nothing. Be Contented. Your pretty young mother is keeping your secret between her shoulders, scars of the last years. Your face has been grey this month, perhaps next month as well. But be well and be contented kind stranger. I keep your secret in my vault.