His head was bowed, his body stilled,
like a stone statue,
And his heart – achromatic, devoid of the vibrant color it once possessed,
His eyes were downcast as well, varnished
with unshed tears,
Stained with a bloodshot hue, vermilion,
the perfect blend of pain and denial,
His arms were drawn tight, folded protectively over his chest,
A shield protecting empty armor, an image
of something that once was full of life and love.
Bones jutted out from under taut skin –
Their hatred had been like turpentine to his body –
And his skin was pigmented with dark
impressions,
Impressions made at the hands of those who
supposedly still owned their hearts,
His hips too, decorated with the same contusions, had become a canvas for the strokes inflicted
upon him by another’s brush.
He was counterfeit art.