A man sits in a chair, runs a hand through his dark hair,
And dumbfoundedly he stares at his reflection.
He thinks about his life, all his toils and his strife,
Walking the edge of a knife without direction.
He recalls a past love, one that he'd been thinking of,
One that parted like a dove to where she came from.
He really can't decide if he should run and hide;
It feels as if he's died, but tears just won't come.
He now sits in self-duel, is feeling rather cruel,
Realizing that his fuel has been exhausted.
It isn't hard to see the cold reality:
His personality has become frosted.
He finally gives a start, and it feels as if his heart
Has been pierced by myriad darts, and killed emotion.
No matter how he tries, he can't bring himself to cry;
His heart is just too dry to feel devotion.