Turn Their Backs

How does the breeze stab like

the softest jab of sharp ice?

And the slightest fleece rub like

the feel of shock, but done twice.

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When did red begin to flow

like the stream of silent pain?

And when did night drown out the glow

and build her stars in vain?

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When did they all turn their backs

when life should have been?

Air has filled my many lacks

Filled with hollowness so thin.

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Why do unanswered questions

ask for peace in return?

Never offering thier lessons

but tearing holes that others burn.