The garment dark and dreary, Speckled with shades of grey, Interspersed with darkest black, Like knife slashes upon the cloth, Wound like yet bloodless.
Cold and lifeless to the touch It encases tomblike the souls of some, Unseen by those who pass by, Even by those who wear them Enslaved by its deathlike grip.
Its texture swirls like fog Never at rest though cold and numb. The breath of its wearers Choked by the dog collar worn, Feel nothing.
The inner gift, Light deep within, The gifts received hidden From the wearers sight, Though seen and honored by others
The garment lives, Feeds, Off of what it is offered, Muting the light Only grayness remaining.
It is often unnamed, Unfelt, Hence its danger, It ability to destroy; Such is the nature of Shame. |
