Blood Shot

Tendons of tales tied to the eye

secrets the pupil dares not tell,

holding one's gaze tenuously in place,

fearing one grain of truth's dirt

will rub raw the charade.

 

Orb's feigned probe into sincerity

fails to find the vision's future.

Heart keeps pumping the conscience

into the glances,

but the face can't hide

the contortionist's need

to pour out the flood of hidden flaws

onto the page of time

so readily read.

 

Veins in the whiteness of one's frailty

visible so easily

as the mind is aware,

tint in hues of the blood of guilt

shot into the moment

when lips bleed

what stares can no longer hide.