The Outcast

Dark shadows cast among the single mind, reluctant to cease and cloak themselves in light. The eyes that refuse to close and narrow instead The weight that those eyes produce pushes the shoulders forward, the head down. Trying and trying to avoid the ichor of words and the poison of stares. It is quiet within the mind, until it begins to judge also. How, oh how to make the mind go silent? Why, oh why must it drag along? It is cold where the skin lays and it crawls with unsatisfactory means. Why must we all ask why?