if the eyes are the gatekeepers of the soul

they make for a sorry state of affairs

too transparent and tight lipped,

a treasure afloat that starve with reckless abandon

the heartbeat a raceless faceless laceless puppy

adorable at times but fundamentally an idiot

energetic, fueled by instinct alone and a stubborn beggar

pride cannot contest charity, it is a slow drip carved within

get out of my head I beg but rest assure the scars I mark myself.

the pot of gold is foolproof and I take issue

okay, maybe, you have taken the best of me

stripped of my dignity, disengaged and disenchanted

Life's script, tales, twists and spin-offs (a riddle)

my palms are peeling and somehow that makes me less lonely

sandbagging instead of developing better happier habits

feeding an hallow mood, picking crumps for a dream coma

feeling heavier despite good company for a change