Cold Heart/Bloody Palms

Lance Barnwell

How cold is the heart that's as brittle as glass
Shattering to shards on the cusp of your grasp
And those shards are the razors that you grind in your hands
For in the ecstasy of pain only you'll understand
Feeding the fire to obliterate those dubious charms
The glass cannot glisten drenched in the blood from your palms

Can you not shed a tear, are you misunderstood?
Or are you purging the sorrow with your own vapid blood?
Lazily leaking from each jagged rip
Depleting your reasoning with each languid drip

Blood covered glass is embedded in the rents on your palms
And the hellish fire that's burning should've given cause for alarm
But those shards that are razors you now grind in your face
Ruinously gouging and shredding as you bid to escape
You're the fire, the blood and now you sob in agonized rasps
For cold is the heart that's as brittle as glass