Soft & Unspoken

The drab curtains painting the walls as the tears streak the windows.
Glossy and in pain, the outside reaches in.

The ever vast expanse of the world beyong beacons,
But to its dismay, no reply.

You have painted a picture, for the angels to weep at,
And the demons to choust.

The brush strokes in permanence of red,
The clock chiming as the judges deliberate.

It was too late for me, and you painted the carpets red.
It was too late for me, and you cut away at my heart.
It's too late for me, because I am left soft, and unspoken.

i love it. you write very well. :)