The sultry crimson of blood on the metallic razor
And the deep lavender of a blossoming bruise
Cannot be washed away by the warm tendrils of chicken noodle soup

And the fleshy pink of crying eyes
And the gray slate of loneliness, interjected with the electric cries of anguish
Can never be obliterated by the refreshing chill of an ice cream cone

Because if eyes are the windows to the soul
What they see must surely leave a print upon the glass
And all it takes is the slightest hint of sulfur upon one's lips
To drown out the euphoric taste of happiness
With agonizing visions of pain's dismal palette