Eyes of Suspect

No one can see past their own lies.
They speak with maggots, growing into flies.

Waves blacken these bugs clutching the mist,
hearing no words, drinking their own piss.

Yet when their river's rights witness wrong,
those morals that melt were weak all along.

They sparkle brighter than half eaten pigs,
glistening gold through the oiliest rigs.

Dripping from their lips; a portrait of me,
searching the water for the treasured sea.

I am the dying writing of blind men flying,
unworthy enough to keep with my hiding.

Because from the arrivals they mold this hold;
relationships of coldness to the coldest cold.

Like stale flowers with greyish wet kisses,
leaving the vase, love that no one really misses.

They pray their red souls could easily relive this life,
sharpening their days with the blunt end of a knife.

Would eyes resize if the addict stopped the lace?
Only life can live as these holes slow their pace.

Beings string sounds of some egotistical power.
They are leading today, as I am not the coward.