division

The driest eye radiates the strongest fear,
For the coldness running through her veins,
And the hallowed glare in her upward gazing eyes,
Emitted a peculiar reaction, a dementia praecox affect,
The lost island of the soul; no reaching for her now,
She is gone with the tide, swept away like sand,
Into black nothingness, with no verbose way to escape,
Nothing of her old behaviors, not a mere sound came from her mouth,
Filled with cotton balls, dry as her eyes.

She smiles and means nothing,
She laughs an empty chuckle to entertain as a harlequin
Dancer, or masquerade as some ptomaine deliverer,
Medicine for death, but nothing will make her cry now,
Hidden in a concrete room, no windows, no chair,
Sitting alone on the cold floor listening to the rampant
Voices of her brain scolding her for not feeling a thing.