We sit on our souls and suffer.

We sit on our souls and suffer.
The slings and arrows
of spring's lingering dreams
perturb our placid faces.
Through eyes blood red
from mourning tears forever
lost to the enveloping void.
The passing time that steals all meaning.
That drives man to vain attempts;
Facsimiles of all that we are,
or were, once, when still living.
Before reducing our infinite all down
to some damnable shorthand.
Our intimate Rosetta,
never truly to be deciphered.
Our all become mere mirror
while mute truth lies rotting, hollowly
echoing in the empty tomb within.