The eerie calm of empty rooms
Devoid of all discussion
The solace of your absence soon
Removes the old disruption

My heart a pyre of monsoons
That feasts upon assumption
Words are naught but acrid fumes
They scorch the hand that touches

The growing chill of bated breath
Now tainted with compunction
Piled high, a mound of death
The paintbrush of destruction

My tongue a worm of cold caress
That only seeks a function
How could you ever see me less
This form made of corruption