Decay

I see it,
The pattern on your visage,
The cracks under your war paint.
The crumble of your façade,
Yet you utter no complaint.

I see it,
Hurt spread across your face.
Glass litters the ground by your feet,
It fell with no grace.
You cower through the mistreat.

I see it,
The greenery spring inside,
The little hope of something to come.
Those little leaves unfolding, eventually they died,
There it must be lonesome.